


A Little Problem

by TheWyldeWynd



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Age Regression/De-Aging, Baby Connor is Weapon's Grade Adorable, Connor Has Issues, Connor and Haytham may be responsible for a lot of each other's issues, Did I mention they have issues?, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Bonding, Family Issues, Father-Son Relationship, Feels, Fluff, Gen, Haytham Has Issues, Haytham may be too sassy for his own good, He may also be too sassy for Connor's own good, Kid Fic, Sassmaster Kenway, The Author Regrets Nothing, They're working on that though, all of the feels, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 18:44:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWyldeWynd/pseuds/TheWyldeWynd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Certain things aren't supposed to happen.  Templars and Assassins aren't supposed to interact without killing each other, Haytham Kenway is not supposed to lose control, and adult men aren't supposed to physically regress into early childhood.  However, when the last of these inexplicably occurs, the Templar Grandmaster finds the others quickly following suit.<br/> <br/><em>(Fill for prompt:</em><br/>"I'm craving some de-aged Connor right now.<br/>How does the poor boy get de-aged? Artifact he found on one of his voyages? And who takes care of him while he's all tiny and cute? Does he still remember what happened or did his memories regress to the age he's at (or a combo of the two??)<br/>Make it cute, and make it fluffy, anons!")</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  


Haytham Kenway had never considered himself to be an overly emotional man, nor could anyone claim he was a man of little self-control. In fact, he prided himself on his ability to approach even the most unexpected of circumstances with stoicism, dignity, and a firm command on himself and his surroundings.

And yet here he was, gaping like a drunken dockworker and torn between the urge to: A) burst into hysterical laughter, B) burst into hysterical weeping, or C) immediately head to the nearest tavern and drink himself into an alcoholic state of oblivion like Thomas Hickey after a windfall. At present, option A seemed the most likely, as short bursts of laughter were threatening to escape his lips and damage his well established and maintained image of perfect discipline.

Before him, the cause of his dilemma’s eyes narrowed sharply. “This is not funny Haytham.”

Normally, such a reaction from Connor would have been quite intimidating. Normally, the young man’s piercing stare and furrowed brow would have inspired a need for caution. Normally, the deep, growling voice would have been warning enough against further ridicule. (Mind you, none of this would apply to Haytham himself, of course, but would certainly do so to most people).

Normally, Connor Kenway did not attempt such an act of intimidation whilst in the body of a three year old child.

All in all, the attempted intimidation did not have quite the same effect when coupled with the tiny body, chubby cheeks, or the massive brown eyes that (at present) seemed more inclined to shed tears than anything else. Furthermore, the quivering lower lip, currently sticking out in a definite pout, spoiled the attempted threat. So too did the tiny, trembling fists covered in childish dimples, and the overall impression that the boy was on the verge of stamping a tiny foot. There was also the voice to be accounted for; high pitched, petulant, and paired with an undeveloped pallet determined to pronounce every ‘s’ as a ‘th’. And, of course, one simply could not overlook the fact that this child – this tiny, trembling child – was currently swimming in a man’s shirt, which had already abandoned one shoulder entirely and was constantly threatening to depart from the other as well.  
Haytham Kenway had always been proud of his self-control. But some things are beyond the power of even the most controlled of individuals.

The force and intensity of his laughter nearly drove him to the ground.

Connor’s mouth dropped open, his little face contorting into outraged dismay. “Haytham!” The word – likely intended as a thunderous admonishment – came out in a squeaking whine as one tiny, bare foot finally gave in to its impulse and stomped against the ground.

There were tears actively flowing from Haytham’s eyes, and the simple act of breathing grew increasingly impossible. He struggled for control over himself, but Connor’s face and demeanor – which grew more upset and, accordingly, more childlike by the moment – made it impossible to do anything but laugh harder.

It actually took Haytham several minutes to calm down; by that point, Connor’s entire face was a brilliant scarlet, his eyes were brimming with unshed tears of frustration, and he looked quite ready to throw himself at the adult in a blind rage. Haytham took several deep, gasping breaths, feeling a degree of guilt crept in alongside his earlier embarrassment. Finally, his breathing steadied, control returning at last, and he met Connor’s tumultuous gaze. “Alright, what-” he paused to fight off another, traitorous, bubble of laughter, “What happened? How did you even manage…” he waved a hand to indicate Connor in his (miniscule) entirety.

The man-turned-child’s frown deepened, lower lip poking even further out than before, “I do not know.” Connor stamped his foot again at the look of skepticism on Haytham’s face, “I do not! Everything was normal last night, but then when I woke up I was like…” he threw his arms out in despair, “like this!”

The Templar sighed at the unsatisfying reply, feeling his earlier amusement at the whole situation begin to fade. “Surely something out of the ordinary must have occurred. Think boy, people do not simply revert to early childhood for no reason.”

Connor was now clearly on the verge of weeping, and when he spoke it was in a desperate wail, “There was not! I was just in the forest and there was nothing! No redcoats, or other people, or anything strange! I… I did not…” he was trembling helplessly now, fighting back sobs, “I did not do anything wrong!”

Haytham felt something twist inside his chest, a deep, unexplainable unpleasantness settling over him. Inexplicably, his mind randomly latched on to the way Connor was converting his ‘r’s to ‘w’s which, much like the ‘s’ to ‘th” confusion, prompted the improbable desire to coo over the child. Banishing that urge from his head, it suddenly occurred to Haytham that something was wrong with the picture before him (aside from the obvious fact that Connor was, of course, three years old).

The boy was trembling uncontrollably now, and not just from the distress over his situation. Haytham’s attention returned to the shirt which, he now fully realized, provided virtually no coverage against the world. Furthermore, it finally occurred to him that Connor’s tiny feet were utterly bare against the cold ground. And, while there had yet to be any sign of snow, the world around them whispered the promise of winter insistently enough to catch the notice of the warmly dressed Templar, let alone an almost naked toddler.

Connor was blue.

Haytham winced sharply, biting back a curse. He blamed whatever witchery had befallen the boy for his lapse in attention. He was a very perceptive man, and under any reasonable circumstances it would not have taken him so long to recognize a few obvious facts. Yes, he could, by no means, be blamed for missing the signs of impending hypothermia on the boy standing two feet in front of him.

That settled, Haytham crossed the miniscule distance, reached down, and caught his son up into his arms.

Shock held the boy for a few brief moments, long enough for Haytham to get a firm grip, before he came to life again. Suddenly it was like trying to hold on to a miniature dervish. “Put! Me! Down!”

He sighed again, adjusting his grip so that Connor was pinned against his chest. At that, tiny fist began to pummel at his chest with the ferocity and intensity of a light tap on the shoulder. After a minute of continued aggression, Haytham’s eyes narrowed sharply. “Connor!”

The boy froze at the unquestionable command in Haytham’s voice, large eyes slowly traveling upwards to meet the Templar’s firm gaze.

Haytham filled his voice with all the authority and weary disappointment of a man who regularly dealt with unruly children – or Thomas Hickey – and spoken again, “That is enough. If you simply released your ridiculous pride for one moment you would realize the necessity of this. Unless,” he arched one brow in a rhetorically sardonic gesture, “you would rather freeze to death.”

Understanding crept into the child’s face, followed almost immediately by a flush of embarrassment and a touch of frustration. All three emotions fought with one another for a moment, before Connor’s face settled into a sulky pout of resignation.

Satisfied that he was no longer being fought, Haytham readjusted his grip again, and began to make his way back to his horse. They would need shelter quickly; shelter, food, and decent clothing. Swinging himself and the boy up into the saddle, he took a moment to wrap his overcoat and cloak more securely around Connor’s tiny body. For a brief moment he found himself distracted by how perfectly his son fit into his arms. Then he took up the reigns and, Connor secure in his hold, spurred his horse away towards the nearest town.


	2. Chapter 2

It was nearly eleven by the time they arrived in the town, and Haytham made no delays in locating the tavern. Immediately he made his way indoors – Connor still bundled up in his arms – rented a room, and took the still trembling child inside.

Even with the combined protection of Haytham’s outer layers and body heat, Connor was nearly frozen after the ride. For once, the boy made no protests as Haytham bundled him in a few spare garments – hands covered in oversized gloves, tiny feet wrapped in a scarf, and entire body swathed in a coat – before tucking him into bed. Looking down, and noting the blue coloration that still clung to the boy, he frowned in thought for a moment. Then he made his way to the large chest at the bed’s foot, retrieved all the extra blankets and quilts therein, arranged them into a veritable mountain of warmth around the toddler, and stoked up a steady blaze in the fireplace. 

Finally satisfied, Haytham made his way to the door, taking up his overcoat and hat on the way. As he reaching the door he stopped, a thought coming to mind, and turned back to the bed’s tiny occupant. “Connor?” Something shifted within the mountain of blankets and quilts. He took that as an affirmation, “I’m going to find you something to wear, I should be back soon.” He started out the door, stopped again, and – smirking lightly – turned back once more. “Oh, and Connor? Do try to avoid any further transformations; I simply wouldn’t know what to do if I came back and found you with a set of fluffy ears or some such.”

A series of muffled words came out from the mound of fabric, none of which were normally uttered from the lips of a toddler.

Haytham tsked thoroughly, shaking his head, “Really now, such language. When I return I ought to make you sit with your face in the corner.” With that he shut the door and, chuckling slightly, made his way down the stairwell.

################

Not quite an hour later Haytham returned to the tavern, carrying two changes of clothing, a pair of shoes, and a child’s hat. He had received an odd look from the tailor as, apparently, lone men did not regularly enquire about entire wardrobes for small children. However, the (ironically contrary) explanation of a sudden growth spurt proved sufficient at assuaging any suspicion. The explanation had not even been finished when the other man began nodding in understanding. Apparently the father of nine children, the tailor was no stranger to sudden changes in size necessitating new clothing.

Fortunately, the man had a decent selection of winter clothing in Connor’s size available, and so the entire trip had not taken too long. It was just after noon now; time enough for Haytham to get Connor properly dressed, and collect dinner while it was still fresh. It hadn’t been that long ago when Haytham stumbled across the boy in the middle of the woods, and surely he would be quite hungry by now…

His mind spiraled off as he made his way up to their room, cataloging the sorts of food a small child would require. He was so preoccupied trying to remember whether or not a toddler could properly digest red meat – the dietary habits of young children were hardly commonplace issues among the Templars – that he almost missed the slightly open door. 

He froze before the door, staring as a strange wave of fear swept through him, driving all thoughts but one from his mind.

_Someone is with Connor._

His pistol was in hand and ready to be fired before he even reached the door, which he flung violently open. And promptly stopped short, tucking the weapon behind his back and staring at the strange tableau before his eyes.

Connor was still in the bed, and was certainly not alone. Two young women, attired as chambermaids, were cradling the boy between them, cooing over him, and constantly petting his hair and pinching his chubby cheeks. A tiny, steel-haired woman of advanced age sat nearby at the room’s small table, overseeing everything with a cool eye. At Haytham’s dramatic entrance all eyes turned his way, the maids in shock, the elder woman with regal coolness, and the child…

The child in question stared up at Haytham from the arms of his captors, a traumatized, hangdog look upon his face which mutely screamed: _**‘save me.’**_

“Good day sir. You have, I see, returned.”

Haytham started, attention torn from his son to the elderly woman. His mind reeled, trying to process what was happening, “I… hello madam,” his manners returned automatically and he gave the woman a polite bow, “is… is there some problem?”

The woman merely narrowed her eyes slightly, “Please sit, sir. Join me for a cup of tea.”

He fought to keep his jaw from dropping and, in something of a daze, walked over to the indicated chair. Upon sitting he opened his mouth, then immediately closed it when the woman’s expression narrowed, instead taking up the proffered cup of tea. 

The woman nodded once in satisfaction, “You must first understand, sir, that we do not allow guests to leave fires burning in empty rooms. That sort of thing tends to have, you understand, unpleasant consequences. It is for this reason that Lisbet, seeing you depart, entered the room to extinguish the fire. You can, I believe, image the girl’s shock when she discovered the room was occupied by a young,” her eyes narrowed to near slits, “ _unattended_ child.”

Oh. A wince escaped Haytham’s control, “Yes, well, you see mada-” The words cut off at another chilling stare, and he took another sip of his tea.

She continued as though there had been no interruption, “Now upon making this discovery the girl informed me, and I took the liberty of speaking with the child who – I must say – I found to be remarkably precocious and well-spoken for his age.” An actually smile crossed the woman’s face, albeit a miniscule one. Haytham found that he was smiling in turn, the words having created an inexplicable warmth in his chest. Then, after a sip of tea, the woman continued, “From what young Connor has told me, he has not, I understand, been long been in your care. I also understand the need to gather a new wardrobe for the child, his previous belongings, as it were, being ruined in that mud-hole.”

Mud-hole? Haytham fought the urge to blink in confusion, “Ah, yes. Unfortunate that, but quite-”

“However,” the cold steel in her eyes was the only indication that he had uttered a single word, “I am afraid that is no excuse. Mister Kenway,” her gaze pinned him like a butterfly to a card, “one does not simply leave their child unattended; _particularly_ when the child is so young, or for so long a time.”

He froze, tea cup halfway to his lips. It was silly, really, to feel at all bad for such a thing. Child’s body or no, Connor had the mind of an adult, and the knowledge of a master assassin. Surely he could handle most any circumstances without much difficulty. Furthermore, it was not as though Haytham had been gone long, less than an hour after all. And he certainly could not have brought the boy with him, in nothing but a man’s shirt to offer protection from the elements. Yes, it was absolutely ridiculous to be at all affected by this little old woman’s chastisement.

And yet… Haytham could not deny the sickly clench of guilt that was suddenly gripping his stomach. He spared a sideways glance at the bed. Connor’s attention was currently focused on fending off one of the chambermaids, who seemed determined to squeeze his cheeks like a farmer’s wife checking the ripeness of fruit. The boy was so… small. He looked so fragile and defenseless there, helpless to even ward off a pair of overly affectionate young girls. Unbidden, Haytham’s mind recalled how he reacted upon seeing the door open, the surge of uncontrollable panic at the mere thought of someone being in the room with Connor.

Something hot splashed against his hand, burning him sharply. He started and, glancing down, was shocked to see his hands trembling so violently that tea had sloshed from the cup. He set cup and saucer down abruptly, blotting the tea from his hands with a napkin.

“A mistake, I imagine, not improbable for a new parent to make.”

He glanced up at the woman, surprised by the sudden warmth in her creaking voice. The woman met his gaze, her eyes now gentled by sympathy and understanding. Apparently his display, though quite absurd and out of character, and won some degree of forgiveness from the formidable lady. Haytham smiled tightly in response, opening his mouth once more.

“Now that this issue has been discussed, there are likely, it occurs to me, others that should be covered.”

Haytham froze once more at the casual command in her voice, a horrid sense of familiarity settling over him. For the briefest moment, it was as though he was a child again, held in the iron clutches of Miss Clark, the seemingly all-powerful governess who once held sway over his life. In the straight back, calm face, and steel eyes of the tiny woman before him he saw the looming shadow of Miss Clark, and realized there was no escape.

Well over an hour later the woman – Mrs. Van Etten, the tavern owner’s wife, he had learned – finally finished her dissertation, leaving Haytham to feel impossibly weary. His mind reeled from the onslaught of information, ranging from the dietary needs of a toddler – apparently they could eat red meat, but should not do it frequently – to their socialization needs, and everything in between.

Learning to leap off of rooftops and stab men to death had not been so overwhelming.

Either unaware or, more likely, uncaring of Haytham’s near delirious state, Mrs. Van Etten rose with an aura of total satisfaction. She nodded once to the chambermaids who, with great reluctance, finally abandoned the object of their affections – though one took a moment to plant a kiss on one chubby cheek and whisper, “Bye-bye precious!” 

Connor, for his part, looked as weary and harassed as Haytham felt.

As one of the maids collected the tea service, Mrs. Van Etten nodded her farewell to Haytham. “As it seems that you and young Connor have missed your dinner, I’ll have Polly bring up a tray for you. We do not, I must say, typically encourage guests to take their meals in their rooms. It has a way, you understand, of inviting vermin into the rooms.” With that the woman gave a polite curtsy, to which Haytham instinctively bowed, and led the maids from the room.

Haytham stared at the closed door, feeling utterly exhausted and conquered. After a moment, he turned to Connor who was… smirking at him.

“Grandmaster of the Templars,” the child actually had the audacity to chuckle at him, “completely defeated by a tavern-keeper’s wife.”

All earlier feelings for the boy were immediately destroyed, replaced by the utter annoyance he felt whenever he had to deal with the disrespectful whelp. Haytham’s eyes narrowed sharply, “Hold your tongue _‘precious_.’” A smirk crossed his face as all smugness faded from the boy’s, “Unless you’d like me to gain a pressing business engagement, and need to ask Lisbet and Polly to look after you while I’m gone.”

Connor’s face positively blazed with embarrassment and frustration, the lower lip poking out and chubby cheeks puffing up as he tried – and failed miserably – to look fierce, and a torrent of words not suited to a child’s lips spewing out towards Haytham.

Feeling a degree of control return, Haytham finally shed his overcoat and hat with a smile. “ _Really_ Connor, the language you use! You know, I really _should_ make you sit with your face in the corner.”


	3. Chapter 3

In the end, it took almost _another_ hour to get Connor even partially dressed. Several minutes alone were taken up trying to extricate the pouting child from his nest, and a few more after that were occupied in reminding him that clothing was not optional, _particularly_ in the winter months.

Then the difficulty began.

Connor took one look at the clothing Haytham had bought and promptly staged his own personal revolution. The knee-breeches were met with scorn – “That is how _proper_ trousers are supposed to be cut.” – the outer shirt was regarded with disdain – “Dark blue is _not_ garish, and under what present circumstance are you going to need to blend into the forest?” – the stockings were treated with outright suspicion – “Well what do you _normally_ wear under those ridiculous boots of yours?” – and the shoes… oh sweet mercy the shoes – “Connor, I do not _care_ what they feel like, we do not have access to moccasins, children do not wear boots, and you _**have** to wear **shoes**_!”

Finally, Haytham had to threaten to go back to the tailor and return with a toddler’s frock to get the boy dressed. The look of abject horror on the tiny face had almost made the whole ordeal worthwhile.

In truth, Haytham _had_ almost bought the frocks in the first place. Though Connor was just at the age when breeching could begin, he was also small enough that most folk would put it off a big longer. The mental image of Connor – tiny, chubby thing that he currently was – dressed in the infant’s garment like a coddled child of proper society, features set in an epically thunderous pout, had been _impossibly_ tempting. He actually had the frock in hand, fully prepared to buy it just so he could see Connor’s reaction when presented with the thing. However, rationality eventually returned, pointing out that the sight alone of such an object would probably result in Haytham being awakened in the dark of night by a frock-wearing, knife-wielding Connor on his chest, ready to leave the Templars of America without a Grandmaster. That thought had conclusively ended his debate as to whether or not he should make the purchase.

Of course, Connor certainly didn’t need to know that.

And so, threat of the frock looming overhead, the boy sulkily conceded to getting dressed.

However, as the stars in their courses were _clearly_ determined to remain aligned against Haytham Kenway, that process proved to have its own host of difficulties. The boy had initially insisted, passionately so, that he dress himself. Unfortunately, his tiny, chubby fingers quickly proved unequal to the tasks of fastening buttons or doing up laces, necessitating Haytham’s not at all appreciated assistance. Then, of course, they finally managed to secure Connor’s breeches only to discover that he was not wearing the stockings. Connor refused to admit that he had purposefully forgone the articles of apparel, but had glared balefully at them as he was divested of the breeches, garbed in the stockings, and redressed in the breeches. And then came the shoes. Damn and twice damn the eternally cursed shoes.

It certainly didn’t help that Polly arrived with their – now _very_ late – dinner part way through the process, bringing everything to a screeching halt. The girl took one look at the messy room, the partially dressed child, and the rumpled and red-faced Haytham, and promptly broke into a fit of helpless giggles. As she fought for breath the girl set the tray down, waved at Connor – who promptly shrank back in mute terror – and left them alone once more.

After a few moments of debate, it was finally determined that the dressing process could wait until after they ate.

It was probably for the best, really. In all honesty, Haytham almost certainly would have strangled the boy if he had to fight over clothing for one minute longer, and such an action could not possibly fall under the headings of ‘proper behavior for a parent’ as laid down by the dread Mrs. Van Etten.

And so they finally settled down at the table to have their dinner. Connor sat in stockings, knee-breeches and undershirt, hair hopelessly disarrayed, and boosted to table-height by four pillows. For his own part, Haytham looked more disheveled than he normally did after a prolonged and strenuous battle. He certainly felt more exhausted than he did after a battle. Cutting wearily into his chicken, he thought back to the tailor, wondering whether he should see about recruiting the man. Surely, any soul who went through such trials with _nine_ children on a regular basis _must_ have something to offer to the Templar order.

Several minutes into this line of thought – and well into his meal – he slowly began to process a quiet, continuous clinking coming from the other side of the table. He glanced up in confusion, and nearly burst out laughing at the sight.

Connor’s face was contorted into a mask of utter determination and frustration as, fork in one hand and knife in the other, he tried to cut into his portion of chicken. It seemed, however, that the child’s tiny hands were no better suited to this task than they had been to getting dressed. Indeed, the utensils seemed comically oversized when held in the pudgy, dimpled fists, and clearly the child’s body which Connor occupied was neither particularly coordinated nor strong enough to make any headway. So far, the best Connor had managed was to lightly scratch the meat’s surface, the knife constantly skittering off in random directions while the fork barely penetrated the chicken. All of Connor’s attention was on his plate, lower lip caught between his teeth in a display of sheer determination. 

The overall impression was, for lack of a better word, adorable.

Haytham stared at the boy for several minutes, his own meal forgotten as he watched the show and held back his laughter. Finally, in the midst of a valiant attempt, the knife veered off so wildly that it splashed sauce across the table. A cry of shocked frustration escaped the boy’s mouth at this, and one tiny foot knocked against the table’s leg in a sort of stomp. 

That was all Haytham could take. He buried his face in one hand, shoulders shaking in helpless laughter. 

A minute later he began to calm down, taking deep, shaky breaths. He chanced a look upwards, and nearly descended into another fit laughter at the sight of Connor, once again trying to look threateningly furiously and only managing an adorable pout. The boy had even folded his arms across his chest, and his face was a brilliant scarlet of embarrassment.

Still chuckling slightly, Haytham raised an eyebrow and waved one hand at the boy’s plate, “Would you care for some help with that?”

_**“No.”**_ Connor’s eyes positively blazed with barely controlled rage.

Haytham tsked in response, rolling his eyes, “Oh come now boy, don’t be… well, _childish_.” Connor flushed again and Haytham’s smirk deepened. “I can hardly have you starving to death in my care or, worse yet, try to eat that with your bare hands.” He reached across the table, pulling the plate away from the pouting boy, “Honestly I’m surprised you didn’t already try to do so, you’re grasp of proper manners being what they are.” That said he began cutting the chicken into tiny, child-sized pieces, ignoring the thunderous expression Connor wore.

A few moments later the simple task was done, and he started to replace the plate. Suddenly, a wicked, tempting idea sprang to mind. Fighting desperately to keep a straight face, Haytham speared a bit of chicken on his fork and then, leaning towards a bewildered looking Connor, he held the meat before the boy’s mouth. “Open wide for the tugboat?”

The boy stared at him in utter bewilderment, as though Haytham had simultaneously taken complete leave of his senses and begun to speak a foreign language. Then, all at once, comprehension dawned.

Connor threw a cup at his head. It was well worth it.

Haytham was bent nearly in half over the back of his chair, one hand covering his face as uncontrollable laughter shook his entire body. Glances at Connor, taken through tear filled eyes, only prolonged the fit. The boy’s entire body appeared red now, and he trembled in mute, helpless rage, apparently unable to utter a single word through his embarrassed fury. His eyes, nearly swimming in tears now, were fixed on the table with such intensity Haytham half expected it to catch fire.

This time it took several minutes for Haytham to calm down, gasping desperately for breath now and putting a hand to his aching ribs. Still shaking with a few hysterical chuckles, he wiped the tears from his face; then, he glanced from the water dripping down the wall at his back, to the empty cup on the ground, and finally up at Connor once more.

If looks could kill, Connor’s expression would have struck him down then and there. Somehow, however, the intensity of the look only made the boy even more adorable, and Haytham had to fight back another wave of laughter.

_“You…”_ the high-pitched voice was absolutely quaking with rage, _“are not. Funny. **Haytham.”**_

He pushed to plate back in front of the boy, still quivering with laughter, “Oh come now,” a few more chuckles escaped him, “it had to be done.” His mouth twitched convulsively at the hate-filled gaze he received. “Some doors, once opened, must be passed through.” With that he returned to his meal, still chuckling, but now with one eye on the flushed boy.

Haytham finished his dinner long before Connor, taking the opportunity to retrieve a few letters from his satchel. He had nearly finished a report from Charles when he saw Connor set his utensils down. He moved to replace the boy’s plate on the tray, glanced at him once again, and let out a sharp laugh of disbelief. “Oh for pity’s sake boy!”

Connor stared back at him in confusion, remnants of his meal smeared over the entire bottom half of his face. “What no- Haytham!” he squirmed back in his seat, raising his arms against the approaching man. “What are you doi- stop it!”

“Oh hush boy,” Haytham bypassed the child’s defense with ease, swiping the napkin across the tiny face, “Somehow you’ve managed to wear more of this than you’ve eaten.”

“Then I can take care of it my- _stop!”_

Haytham ignored his protests, rubbing the cloth over cheeks and mouth alike, scoffing lightly, “You couldn’t even feed yourself without making a mess. Now if you’ll just hold still for a moment longer… there.” He set the napkin on the tray, and gave the boy a look of patient mollification, “Was that really so hard?”

Connor merely glared at him from under furrowed brows.

Smirking in satisfaction, Haytham collected the tray, deposited outside, and returned to his letters.

################

It was nearly three in the afternoon when Haytham finished reading. He set the papers aside, taking a brief moment to stretch, before collecting the supplies needed for his responses. 

He glanced over at Connor, now sitting on the window seat and watching the outside world. The boy’s eyes were dull and his expression flat, feet hanging listlessly off the edge of the little bench, and fingers tracing patterns in the frost. He was still only partially dressed, Haytham simply not wanting to restart the Battle of the Wardrobe without good reason.

Satisfied that, for now at least, the man-turned-child was causing no difficulty or commotion, the Grandmaster of the Templars settled down to his duties, writing orders and responses with practiced ease.

He completed several minor letters quickly, without any interruption, before starting in on a reply to Charles’ missive. 

_**-thud-** _

He started at the sudden noise, pen creating a small, unwanted dash across the page. Eyes narrow, he looked over at Connor. The boy paid him no heed, attention still focused on the window, and one foot swinging slightly. Haytham sighed in mild exasperation and returned to his letter.

_**-thud-** _

The pen jerked again, this time leaving several tiny spots of ink alongside the dash. His eyes narrowed again, a short growl escaping him. “Connor.” The boy looked back at him, foot frozen in midair. They held one another’s gazes for a moment, before Connor loosed a sigh and looked back to the window, head lolling against the frame and foot remaining still. Haytham gave a similar sigh and, once more, went back to his letter.

_**-thud!-** _

“Connor!” He swore in frustration, righting the inkwell and hurriedly moving his other letters. The sheet of paper he had been working on was now mostly obscured by ink. 

Now frowning deeply, Haytham looked at the boy. From his spot on the window seat Connor looked back coolly, utterly unrepentant. They remained that way for several long moments, staring pointedly, unmoving. Then, slowly, Connor raised his leg.

Haytham eyes widened in disbelief, before narrowing to slits. “Don’t. You. _Dare.”_

The boy stared back fearlessly. His foot remained where it was, hovering in midair threateningly. Then, with determined precision, it swung downwards.

_**-THUD!-** _

“That _does_ it!” Haytham leapt to his feet, nearly knocking the chair over in the process, and stamped over to the window seat. “Boy, so help me if you are going to act like this than I absolutely will make you sit in the corner until you learn _some_ degree of manners!” He loomed over the child, eyes smoldering with rage, “What in the _blazes_ has even-” the words cut off abruptly. Haytham stared into Connor’s face intently, disbelief growing. The boy was staring up at him without any sign of worry or remorse, and yet… 

Haytham’s expression turned to one of utter incredulity as he noted the red-rimmed eyes, lids that fought to stay open, and nodding head. “Oh for _pity’s sake_!” Sighing explosively, he reached down and caught the boy up in his arms, fighting a sudden flail of limbs all the way to the bed.

Connor squirmed wildly in his grasp, trying to free himself. “Haytham! Let go!” He growled sharply as he bounced against the mattress, trying to dart off the bed. “What are you-” he struggled against the man’s hold.

“You,” Haytham’s voice rumbled out like a battlefield command, precise and controlled, as he wrestled the boy under the covers of the bed, “are _clearly_ in need of a nap, and you are _going_ to take one!” He dodged a tiny, lashing foot, “If only so that I may have the opportunity to finish my work in peace and quiet!”

“Stop it!” The boy’s shrill voice pierced through the air, actually bringing Haytham to a halt. Connor stared up at him, face twisted in distress, breath coming up in tremors, “I am not a child, Haytham.” He shuddered convulsively, eyes blazing, “And just because I am trapped like this, does not give you the right to treat me like one!”

He stared down at the boy for a long moment, a cold calm settling over his being. Finally, he let out a sharp breath, “You may not, _technically_ , be a child” his hard gaze pinned Connor, “but like it or not you _are_ in the _body_ of a child.” Haytham adjusted his grip as Connor tried once more to squirm away, taking the boy by one shoulder and holding his chin firmly so the boy met his eyes, “And the body of a three-year-old has different needs from that of an adult. _Including_ ,” he cut off the attempted protest, “the need for greater quantities of sleep!” The boy growled and fought his hold in protest, but Haytham held firm. “A simple fact,” he added stonily, “I would expect any _real_ adult to understand. Indeed,” he looked down at the boy, raising a brow archly, “were you truly a child I would expect to you continue throwing a tantrum, instead of simply swallowing your pride taking a damn nap like your current body demands!”

Connor stared up at him in silence, humiliation and frustration warring over his face. Finally, the boy turned away and threw himself violently to the bed, burying his face in a pillow. Fighting off an exhausted sigh, Haytham drew the covers over the boy’s body and returned to the table, trying to ignore the sniffling sounds coming from the bed.

Sitting down, he tiredly mopped the spilled ink from the table, before selecting a fresh sheet of paper and taking up his pen once more. 

_-Charles,_

He stared at the page, gripping the pen until his knuckles were white. A minute passed, and then another, and yet the page remained blank but for a single word. No matter how much he tried to focus on his letter, he simply could not ignore the sickly gnawing in his stomach. 

Finally, he sighed and, setting the pen down yet again, made his way back to the bed. Reaching his destination, Haytham laid a hand gently on the tiny, fabric covered bump. “Connor? I’m-” He froze, catching sight of the boy’s half-obscured face.

Connor was fast asleep, chubby cheeks streaked with tears.

Haytham stared at the boy dumbly. Then, shakily, he dropped to sit on the floor, burying his head in his hands.

Seven hours. It had been seven hours since he stumbled across his wayward son, somehow regressed to near-infancy and all but naked, utterly alone in the middle of the woods. Seven hours of acting from task to task, operating on instinct and complete denial of the impossible situation in which he found himself. Seven hours of his emotions running wild, swinging insanely from hysterical mirth to complete confusion to blind rage. Seven hours spent steadily losing the perfect control he had developed over a lifetime. Seven hours.

He had never felt so tired, so helpless, in his entire life.

It was all impossible, simply impossible. Such things did not _happen_. Men did not become children overnight. How was he supposed to be able to handle this, any of it? How was he supposed to care for this man in a child’s body? He could hardly deal with Connor when the boy was his proper age! It wasn’t possible and, what’s more, it simply wasn’t _fair_.

He was trembling helplessly, hands fisting in his hair, as he found himself fighting the urge to breakdown and weep himself.

He was just so tired.

He sat there for a long time, unmoving and unthinking. Eventually, he shuddered out a sigh and found his feet again. Wearily he gaze turned on the sleeping child, examining him more closely. Time and sleep had eased the earlier tension on Connor’s face somewhat, making him look all the younger. Haytham watched as the boy twitched in his sleep, nose wrinkling and a tiny hand taking hold of the pillowcase.

_Ziio used to do that._

Haytham felt as though a dagger had been plunged into his chest, heat burning anew behind his eyes. Unbidden, his mind flashed to one of those eternally lost nights when he had laid awake, Ziio asleep in his arms, simply content to watch her. He remembered her wrinkling nose, the way her hand would curl around whatever clothes he was still wearing or, more often than not, catch gentle hold of his loose hair. Heavens their son looked so much like her.

Slowly, gently, he settled himself on the bed, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from the boy’s face. Connor briefly stilled under his touch, before relaxing, and Haytham continued. Almost imperceptibly he ran his hand down the side of the tiny face, thumb extending to brush away one stubborn tear from the plump cheek.

He didn’t look away, didn’t move beyond his continued caress of the boy’s face. He didn’t have the energy.

His mind spiraled away, drifting to ideas he normally refused to allow himself. What would have been like, he wondered, had things been different? What would his world be if he hadn’t allowed Ziio to push him away, if they actually had the chance to be a family?

It had been a dream of his since he was a boy. A family. A wife. Children. A home. Someone, something, to always return to, to love and care for and protect.

It certainly wouldn’t have been like he always dreamed as a boy. Ziio would never have belonged in that world, in the tall houses and fancy dresses of ‘proper’ society, nor would he have wanted her to. No. No it would not have been the dream of his youth.

A large house outside of town, a homestead that belonged to the land as much as its mistress did. A small horde of beautiful, perfect, dark skinned children, who would rush him the moment he returned, throwing themselves into his open arms with cries of joy. A cherished wife watching with wry amusement, no fragile damsel or vapid beauty, but his equal in body, mind, and spirit; someone he could love with his whole heart and trust with his life. Perhaps, some days he would come home to an empty house, and wait until Ziio brought the children back from whatever hunting trip or adventure they had been on. Others, he might stay with their brood while she attended to clan business, only returning to find he had spoiled the little ones rotten in her absence. Still others they might leave together, trusting the wellbeing of the children to her tribe or his lieutenants while they journeyed together. But no matter what arrangement, no matter what adventures or travels, they would all eventually find their way home. He would watch his children grow up, wise in the ways of their mother’s people and their father’s order. They would become strong, brilliant, powerful, and every day he would grow more and more proud of them. It wouldn’t be perfect, but it would be all he would ever want or ask for.

Abruptly, Connor shifted in his sleep, rousing Haytham from his daydream. His eyes refocused on the boy, on the reality before him.

‘Connor.’ He brushed his hand to the boy’s head, stroking the baby-fine hair gently. He had always thought, always planned, that his firstborn’s name would be Edward. Or Jenny, were it a girl. Somehow he doubted the name Connor would have ever been a possibility for any son of his. And yet… 

Watching the child twitch in his sleep, nose wrinkling again, he smiled. No matter what might have been, he simply couldn’t imagine the boy with any other name. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He _could_ , in fact, imagine the boy with _one_ other name. He just couldn’t _pronounce_ it.

Another way of exhaustion rolled over him, and at once Haytham felt impossibly old and weary. Slowly, with nigh-uncontrollable reluctance, Haytham rose from the bed, lifting his hand from Connor’s head, and making his way back to the table. 

Dream as he might, there would be no beautiful house, no loving wife, no horde of children. The only woman Haytham had ever loved was dead, and the only son he would ever have was lost to him, forever separated from him by the insurmountable chasm of ideology. No. All he had was the Templars, his work, his men. How different from the life he had longed for. Life. What was it Father used to say? ‘Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans.’ Well, life had certainly happened for Haytham Kenway, and now he simply had to live it as best he could.

In the silence of the little room Haytham Kenway, Grandmaster of the Templar Order, sat down to his missives, pushing his regrets and dreams back beneath the iron grasp of his control. 

Across the room, unnoticed by the solitary man stooped over his work, the tiny child whimpered in his sleep, head craning searchingly for the lost comfort of a loving hand.


	4. Chapter 4

Connor woke up once, about a quarter past seven that night. With a little gentle coaxing, Haytham managed to get him seated at the table, and tempted him with a bowl of rich stew and some fresh bread, both of which had been delivered under the orders of Mrs. Van Etten – a woman who, Haytham was growing increasingly sure, possessed some sort of supernatural precognitive ability. 

Unlike dinner, supper was a remarkably silent – almost somber – affair. In fact, Connor had been so compliant and quiet that Haytham became somewhat… worried. The boy raised no fuss when transported from bed to table, meekly ate everything placed in front of him, refrained from the pouting and foot-stomping that were swiftly becoming facets of his normal behavior, and didn’t even react when Haytham – instinctively – wiped a few streaks of stew from his face. Haytham should have been glad, and yet… and yet with every passing minute of such behavior, he only became more and more concerned.

Thankfully, his unease was eventually assuaged when Connor’s abruptly fell, face-first, into his bowl of stew. Whilst rescuing the boy from what certainly would have been a most inglorious drowning, Haytham fought back a sigh of relief.

The strange, peaceful obedience did _not_ stem from any lasting embarrassment or – he couldn’t shake the irrational idea – fear. No. It was simple exhaustion that had transformed the willful, temperamental brat his wayward boy had become, into a quiet and agreeable child. Given the events of the day, it made a fair bit of sense. As soon as the boy had a full night’s sleep he would, most certainly, be back to his typically aggravating self.

Gently wiping stew from the child’s entire face, Haytham brushed aside the ridiculous rush of joy at that idea, chalking the irrationality of that emotion to his own exhaustion.

Supper was quickly finished – Haytham made particular note of how easy meal-time was when the only utensil required was a spoon – and the Templar readied the boy for sleep. Once again, there was no protest or sulking as Haytham picked Connor up and carried him back to the bed. Likewise, the boy was perfectly well-behaved while being divested of the few day clothes he wore, and while being garbed in a nightshirt. By the time Haytham was finished – a scant few minutes this time, as opposed to the hour long process which had taken place earlier – Connor could barely keep his eyes open.

Carefully, Haytham laid the boy down, drawing the covers over him once more and tucking him in securely. He couldn’t help smiling when the boy gave a cavernous yawn, then snuggled into the pillow, nose twitching.

He hesitated at the bedside for several long moments, before slowly running a hand through the child’s hair and down one cheek. “Goodnight, Connor.”

His only response was a muffled mumble. Connor was already asleep.

Sighing tiredly, Haytham rose to his feet and made for the one armchair in the room. Divesting himself of a few, unnecessary articles of clothing, he settled into the chair and, at last, let slumber claim him.

################

Just as he had thought, a night of sleep restored much of Connor’s usual, positively _delightful_ temperament. Thankfully, however, the new day brought _some_ rewards. If nothing else, Connor was nowhere near as ill-tempered as he had been the day before, for which Haytham praised the merciful heavens. Instead, the morning found Connor much as he normally was – sans, of course, being an adult.

The boy was surly, standoffish, and had recovered his sharp, abrupt tongue. However, he was also reasonable. Haytham could work with reasonable.

He managed to get the child fully dressed with minimal fuss – though the stockings were still regarded as one might a poisonous serpent, and he momentarily expected the shoes to be thrown through the window – and even got him to voluntarily, though hesitantly, leave the room and take breakfast in the downstairs commonroom. Of course, Connor being Connor, things were nearly derailed when Haytham produced the hat.

Connor took one look at the child’s hat and the thunderous expression from the previous day returned. “It looks like _your_ hat.” The high-pitched voice brimmed – and, therefore, squeaked – with suspicion. 

“It looks,” Haytham growled, glaring right back, “like a hat.” He quelled the returning desire to strangle the boy, “There are only so many ways they can be shaped, and this was what the tailor had available. Furthermore,” he immediately cut off a protest, “it is part of proper apparel, and you _are_ going to wear it or so help me-”

“You’ll make me sit in the corner. Right, fine.” Connor sighed through his teeth, almost as though he were the one suffering from the other’s childishness, “Just give me the hat and let us go eat.”

_Do not… strangle… the boy._

“Fine.” The word came out in a hiss, and he held the hat out pointedly. He waited with narrowed eyes until the brat was (finally) dressed, then swung the door open. “If you’re _quite_ ready.”

They stalked down to the commonroom in silence, settling at an empty table on the edge of the room. They had only just taken their seats when they were spotted by Polly and Lisbet – and really, Haytham was beginning to wonder if they were the only employees in the entire tavern – who immediately attempted to swoop down on Connor, only to be restrained by a sharp glance from Mrs. Van Etten.  
Eventually, a much subdued Polly stopped by their table with a heavy-laden tray, casting a longing glance at Connor before retreating to the kitchen. The boy sighed in relief and shot a thankful glance in the direction of the formidable proprietress, before following Haytham’s example and applying himself to the porridge. 

They ate in silence, Connor’s attention completely focused on getting the food in his mouth rather than on his face. For his part, Haytham found his mind pulled in several directions…

He winced, feeling the beginnings of a headache stir at his temples, and pushed away the remains of his meal. The boy raised an eyebrow briefly and started to set down his spoon, to which Haytham stared pointedly at the child’s bowl. Connor sniffed – almost haughtily – and returned to his meal as though no other thought had been entertained in his mind.

_Brat._

Already his headache was growing. Sighing, Haytham reached up to briefly press his fingers against his temples. After a moment he straightened again, letting his eyes play about the room.

The tavern’s commonroom was almost empty: a trio of laymen were settled in one corner, tucking into their breakfast with wild abandon; a young tradesman shared his table with a preacher, his elder brother by the looks of it; and a lone, scruffy man – most likely a trapper – had settled himself as near the fire as possible without catching alight. Aside from these men, Connor, and Haytham himself, the only signs of life were the two girls, and Mrs. Van Etten in her chair by the kitchen door. On rare occasions, one of the girls would stop by a table or venture into the kitchen for food or drink; otherwise, the room was almost still.

Haytham sighed again, resettling himself in his chair. He turned his attention across the table, where Connor was steadily losing his battle against the porridge. Really, it was remarkable just how off the boy’s coordination was since the transformation. As he watched, the porridge succeeded in a particularly decisive victory, leaving a wide trail down the boy’s chin. “Careful now,” his lips twitched upwards, “you almost got that into your mouth.”

Connor glared up at him from under furrowed brows, cheeks puffing out and lips pursing together. “Someone must have once said that you were funny.” The large brown eyes narrowed, a threat somewhat mitigated by the mask of porridge covering the lower half of his face, “They lied to you.”

He raised a brow sardonically, “Oh really now?” A flicker of moment on the commonroom’s border caught his attention, as the tavern’s owner emerged from a backroom. Haytham felt his lips twitch again, and he fixed his eyes on a suddenly wary Connor. “Lisbet?” The boy’s eyes grew wide, his expression turning to equal parts fear and warning. As the boy shook his head, clearly trying to look threatening, Haytham merely smirked and, eyes still on Connor, continued addressing the girl, “I wonder if you might help me with something. I must to speak with the proprietor for a moment; would you mind watching Connor for a bit?” He finally looked away from the horrified child, giving the girl his most charming smile, “I know you are working, but I need to speak with Mr. Van Etten, and little Connor does so need looking after.”

“Oh, of course sir!” The dear girl was almost giddy, half-bouncing in place, “We’re not at all busy right now, and Polly can look after the other tables!” At this she shot a pleading glance at her counterpart, who – with just a touch of envy – smiled and nodded her acquiescence.

“Thank you my dear,” he rose, bowing his head in appreciation, “it is a relief to know that he will be in good hands, even for a short while. Now Connor,” he gave the boy the sweetest, most adoring fatherly look he could manage, “you will be a good little boy for Lisbet, won’t you?”

All things considered, it was quite admirable how well Connor’s adorable little face managed to convey _**‘I will kill you.’**_

Haytham smiled, then reached out to gently pat a tiny patch of clean skin on one cheek, “Of _course_ you will.” And, with that, he left Connor with the cooing girl, and made his way towards the proprietor.

Despite what the boy probably thought, he actually hadn’t been lying. And so, fighting against an undignified spring in his step, he pulled the older man aside. 

In contrast to his forbidding wife, Mr. Van Etten was a plump man of less than average height, who radiated the warm and friendly manner which most men of his work attempted, and failed, to present. His accent was just as thick as his wife’s, though his syntax was decidedly less… odd, and in the few words they shared the day before, Haytham had found the man obliging and competent. The little man caught sight of him, gave a beaming smile, and directed him to a small, private table set apart from the rest.

Several minutes passed quietly, Haytham settling his business with Mr. Van Etten, before a loud bang shattered the peace. He, like the others in the commonroom, glanced towards the source of the noise. A pair of men had entered the tavern, swaggering unsteadily to the threshold of the commonroom. At the sight of them, Mr. Van Etten’s cheer vanished, and the little man rose shakily.

“Eh, please excuse me for a moment Mr. Kenway. I must…” he trailed off nervously.

Haytham smiled comfortingly and nodded, “I understand.” His gaze trailed to the burly men, noting their distinctly rumpled appearance, the glaze over their red eyes, and the nervous hush over the room, “I don’t suppose I could be of any assistance?”

The landlord stiffened briefly, then let out a nervous chuckle, “No, no please sir, do not trouble yourself. It is nothing, only…” his smile was a pale shadow of its usual self, “as host I should be having words with these… gentlemen.” The pleasant man almost seemed to stumble guiltily over that word, as though he were committing some unforgivable deception by uttering it. He bowed jerkily, then set off towards the men like a soldier towards the frontline.

Haytham let his eyes play over the newcomers. Both were fairly young, probably a year or so older than Connor should have been. Both were dressed quite well, though their finery was extremely rumpled and seemed in need of a thorough washing. The younger of the two – a rather sallow fellow with brown hair – was of fairly average height and build; the older was slightly taller, but much more heavily built. Of the two, he – with chiseled features and thick blond hair – might have been considered very attractive. At least, he might under better circumstances. As it was, he and his companion were disheveled, filthy, and completely drunk.

He repressed the urge to sniff in disapproval. Clearly these ‘gentlemen’ were a pair of rich young louts, buffoons who had never done a day’s work in their lives, and threw their fathers’ money away on as much liquor as they could stomach.

The pair had made it to the middle of the room, staggering the whole way, when Mr. Van Etten reached them. The little man’s manner was – if nowhere as warm as typical – far more polite than most would have managed. Yet, he had barely opened his mouth to speak when the taller man waved a hand in his face. “Aw, go ‘way Dutchie!” The oaf smiled smugly, the expression making him look even more unpleasant and stupid, “We’ll call if we wan’ anythin’.”

Haytham felt a growl catch in his throat, his eyes narrowing sharply. Drunkenness was unpleasant enough – and few knew that better than a man who regularly dealt with Thomas Hickey – but when added to undeserved superiority and plain stupidity… He took a long sip of tea, fighting back his displeasure. He didn’t like, had never liked, such behavior. Especially not when directed at someone who was honest, competent, and pleasant. He caught the landlord’s flush of embarrassment and shame, and fought back another growl, a sentiment that – on second glance – seemed to be reflected throughout the room. 

The atmosphere had grown notably tense upon the entry of the two men, and continued growing with each step they took. Haytham started to take another sip of tea, only to freeze.

The two men had finally stopped. Right at the table where Connor and the young maid sat.

Slowly, deliberately, Haytham found his feet. Nothing might happen, and under present circumstances it would be best to keep a low profile. And yet, if they made one move towards Connor…

“Hey there Lishy-girl! I havn’ seen you ‘round lately!” The taller man was leering down at the girl, seeming to take a cruel, drunken pleasure in her obvious discomfort and embarrassment. “Ish almos’ like you been ‘voidin’ me or summ’in’!” He reached out a meaty hand, brushing it against her neck, then laughing roughly when she flinched and slapped it away.

The disgust Haytham felt rose abruptly, then died away just as quickly as a surge of fear took over. Connor had bristled sharply at the man’s behavior, the angry flash that entered his eyes whenever an injustice took place catching light. The boy coiled, eyes fixed on the man…

Haytham stopped a few steps from his seat, releasing a shuddering breath. Lisbet had, apparently, felt and misinterpreted Connor’s sudden movement, and had pinned the boy to her side, away from the two men. The Templar felt a surge of gratitude towards the girl, knowing full well that she had stopped his idiot boy from endangering himself.

He now felt a strange, unfamiliar rush of uncertainty. Normally, he would have already done something about the oaf – he liked men who mistreated women as much as he liked idiots and drunkards – and yet… His eyes were pulled to Connor once more. Any action would likely provoke a violent response and, while he had no doubts about who would be victorious, he did not want to have the boy in such an uncertain situation. Furthermore, with Connor as he was, any unusual or aggressive actions could well draw the wrong sort of attention, once more putting the boy at potential risk.

He felt… trapped. Almost helpless, and he did not like it.

The tension in the room was almost impossibly thick now, all eyes fixed on the little table. From their corner, the laymen were mumbling darkly, and Haytham saw the trapper tensing as though to rise. Mr. Van Etten had made his way to the table, trying to draw the attention of the two men.

“C’mon now Lishy!” The drunkard seemed oblivious to everything but the trembling girl, “Me an’ Rob jus’ had a fun night, an’ we though’ ‘why no’ go an’ see Lishy, eh?’” His leer deepened, “Maybe we can have a real fun day too…”

“Oi now,” from behind the pair, the trapper had risen steadily to his feet, glaring darkly from under bushy eyebrows, “You best leave that girl be.”

A rumble of agreement spread from the others in the room. One of the layman moved to stand near the trapper, and spat into the fire in disgust, “‘Tain’t fittin’ fer a man to speak to any respe’table woman like that.”

The smug looks on the newcomers faded, replaced by ugly grimaces. The smaller of the two looked somewhat nervous now, eyes flickering from the two men before them, to where the other layman had also risen. The larger, however, showed no sign of intimidation. He let out a cruel laugh, waving one hand dismissively at the others, “Look a’ the big men, eh Rob? They’r regu- r-reg- real knights in shinin’ a’mer they are.”

The preacher stood, expression calm but firm, “You are drunk John Preston, and you Robert Gregg.” His voice was every bit as firm as his manner, “Go home. Before you do something you regret.”

“Shu’ up!” Preston face was made even uglier by sudden rage, spit flying from his lips, “You thin’ I care abou’ whut some preacher-man thin’s? Naw, I dun care! I dun care fer any of you!” He sneered, “Ish none o’ you’re buz’niz anyway. Ish jus’ between me an’ Lishy ‘ere.” He turned, leering hungrily at the girl, “‘Eh Lishy? You an’ me gunna ‘ave some fun, eh?”

“Y-you just go away now John Preston.” Haytham felt a swell of pleased surprise at the girl’s sudden show of strength. He could hear the faint tremble in her voice die away, replaced by a note of steel. “No one wants you here.” Lisbet pulled herself up to her unimpressive height, still managing to look down with dignity on the large man, “Not even for all of your father’s money.”

“Oh really now?” Preston shifted, his hulking back suddenly obscuring Haytham’s view as the ruffian loomed over Lisbet. “And jus’ why’s tha’ li’le miss, you think you’re some kind of lady? That now a li’le nothin’ like you’s too good for the likes o’ me? Or maybe,” his voice grew even uglier, “maybe you’re jus’ too busy with tha’ li’le whelp there.” He let out a rough, barking laugh, “I guess ish true what they say then, eh Rob? Ladies jus’ love dogs. Even when they’re filthy li’le mongrels.” The man sneered the last words with disgust, though Haytham barely had the time to register that fact. Any other thought was cut off by a child’s high, sharp cry of pain.

_Connor’s_ cry of pain.

Suddenly the room was deathly silent. No one moved, no one breathed. Not that Haytham cared over much. All of his attention was fixed, focused entirely on the man in front of him. The filthy creature was trembling helplessly, Adam’s apple bobbing and pulse fluttering wildly under Haytham’s grasp, eyes wide in terror and swimming in tears, pathetic whimpers – the only sound in the entire building – barely escaping past the muzzle of Haytham’s pistol. 

Haytham did not remember moving, did not remember shoving the man up against a wall, shoving his pistol halfway down the other’s throat. Normally, such a lapse in memory would have troubled him. Not now. No… now, all he felt was an all encompassing cold fury.

He could not remember the last time he was so enraged.

“That,” when he finally spoke, his voice was perfectly calm, his manner perfectly polite, “was a mistake.” He met the other’s terrified eyes gently, reveling in the mindless panic in them, “It is simply not fitting for a man to behave in such a way.” He stopped abruptly, tilting his head as though in thought, “No. No, not a man.” His grip tightened viciously, drawing a strangled cry from the thing under his grasp. “No real man would _ever_ be so contemptible as to raise his hand against a child, or to treat a woman so disgustingly. No.” He squeezed again, reveling in the burning crimson that lit up its face, “Only a beast would commit such unspeakable acts. And,” his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, “be put down for its actions.” He pressed the pistol a little deeper, “Are you a beast, Mr. Preston? You resemble a man, and yet…” he ran his thumb over the pistol’s hammer, drinking in the way the creature’s pupils dilated in blind terror. He twitched the pistol upwards, drawing the thing’s attention back to himself, “A man,” he continued calmly, gently, “would certainly apologize for _accidentally_ bringing harm to a child.” He pressed the pistol deeper yet, “A man would _**beg**_ for forgiveness.”

The animal under his grasp let out a pathetic sob around the gun’s muzzle, incomprehensible cries pouring out as he desperately tried to beg, tears flowing unchecked down his cheeks, the acrid smell of urine filling the air. Haytham’s expression held in its cold politeness, yet inside he felt a savage exhilaration take hold. Like a wolf at the end of a hunt, staring into the wild eyes of a dying stag, he felt the urge to howl in wild joy. This… _creature_ … this loathsome excuse for a man had hurt his son. He had made Connor cry out in pain, and now he would pay for his crime, would _suffer_ , and no one would _dare_ raise a hand against his boy again. 

“Nothing to say?” He drank in the blind, desperate terror in the animal’s eyes, a barely perceptible smirk playing across his lips. He shook his head in a show of disappointment, “A pity.” His thumb brushed lovingly over the hammer of his pistol, slowly drawing it back.

“Father!”

His thumb stilled, mind jolting to a stop at the sudden cry and the feeling of two tiny hands gripping the leg of his trouser. He glanced down, eyes meeting Connor’s. The boy’s breathing was shaky, and Haytham could feel the tiny hands trembling; and yet… and yet the large brown eyes met his without fear, without hesitation. Connor swallowed thickly, “Father stop. I am not…” his faced twisted strangely, and his grip tightened, “Let him go.” 

Not a command. Not a plea. Yet, somehow, in being neither it was both.

Haytham held the boy’s gaze for a while longer. Then, abruptly, he pulled his pistol back and sent the brute hurtling into his companion. Both men collapsed in a tangle on the floor, and the air was filled with unrestrained sobs of terror and relief.

He holstered his pistol slowly. Then, like a bolt of lightning, he brought his foot down on one of Preston’s hands. There was a sharp, sickening crack, followed immediately by a howl of agony. He left his foot in place, keeping both the hand and the two men pinned to the floor. After a moment, he pressed down slightly, drawing another cry of pain and the terrified eyes of both men. He held their gazes coldly for several moments. Then, slowly, deliberately, he spoke.

“Don’t you _ever_ lay your hands on my son again.”

With that he turned sharply, swept Connor up into his arms, and left the room behind.

################

Haytham didn’t stop, didn’t even slow, until they were in the room and the door was bolted. Almost immediately he set Connor down on the edge of the bed, knelt in front of the boy, and gently clasped his little shoulders.

His eyes darted over the boy, searching for anything out of the ordinary, “Are you alright? What…” he trailed off, suddenly fighting for breath, “what happened?” Connor shifted in his hold, refusing to look at him. After a moment, Haytham realized that the boy’s face was a brilliant scarlet. _“Connor?”_

The boy fidgeted again, “He…” Their eyes met for a split second before Connor looked away abruptly, eyes riveted in his lap. Haytham blinked slowly. He could have sworn that the child looked… embarrassed. Yes, that had been it. Embarrassed, and somewhat ashamed.

“Connor?” Gently, he cupped the little chin, raising the boy’s head to meet his eyes again, “What he do? You… you can tell me, it’s alright.” 

“He…” Connor took a deep breath, face still burning with embarrassment. Finally, he raised his eyes, looking up at Haytham, and gestured towards his head. “He pulled my hair.”

Haytham stared at the boy, torn between the urge to sigh in relief, or laugh at the absurdity of the situation, or go back downstairs and finish what he started. At present, the final option seemed _most_ appealing. Eventually, however, he settled on the first. Sighing deeply, he brushed a hand over the Connor’s hair, smoothing it back from his face. Now focused, he could see a patch of angry red on the boy’s scalp, on and into his hairline, which had nothing to do with humiliation.

He rubbed his thumb against the patch gently, trying to chase away some of the sting. For the briefest moment he had one of the most absurd ideas, the bewildering desire to brush his lips against the spot and banish the pain. Clearly, he had not rested well enough the night before, and was still overly exhausted. Honestly, child’s body or no Connor was a grown man – albeit a ridiculously naïve one – and he did not need to be coddled. And even if he did, Haytham certainly would not be, under any circumstances, the one to coddle him. Or, for that matter, anyone else. Really, he didn’t even know from where the abnormal thoughts and desires were coming. Best to just walk away, get on with the day’s business, and forget all of it.

And yet… and yet Haytham couldn’t bring himself to move. Couldn’t bring himself to lift his hand, to stop stroking the soft, baby-fine hair. Connor’s eyes were closed now, the tension and blush of shame steadily vanishing from his little face as he leaned – almost imperceptibly – into the caress. Haytham knew he should have stopped, but he couldn’t bring himself to deprive the child of this small comfort.

He sighed again. Just this once. Just for a little while, he could set aside what he _should_ do, and give in to what he… what he _wanted_ to do. 

After all, he was overtaxed and exhausted; that meant he was allowed to want strange things.

They remained there for several minutes, Haytham stroking the boy’s hair, and Connor pressing into the touch. At some point, he wasn’t certain when exactly, Haytham had begun to smile, a strange – but pleasant – warmth settling into his body.

Suddenly, he felt Connor stiffen. “You… should not have done that.” There was a new furrow on the boy’s brow, “What you did to that man, Preston.” He glanced up at Haytham again, lower lip threatening to stick out, “It was not right, and uncalled for.”

Well, that took care of the warm feeling. Haytham settled back on his heels, staring at the boy with mild disbelief and annoyance. “I’m sorry,” he lifted his hand – ignoring the tiny whimper that came from its departure – and pressed it against his chest in mock shame, “Next time someone attacks you, I’ll be _more_ than happy to let them have their way. You must, _of course_ , forgive me; but, you see,” he narrowed his eyes sharply, “I’ve long operated under this positively _ridiculous_ belief that when someone _screams in pain_ , they must be in need of some help.”

Connor flinched a little at that, blush returning with a vengeance. “It was _nothing_ , barely more than an annoyance. I should not have yelled.”

He stared at the boy, disbelief deepening. Surely, there were _limits_ to the boy’s refusal to accept his new physical reality. “The man was nearly three times your size. And,” he cut off an attempted protest, “that scream was _not_ caused by ‘an annoyance.’” He felt a blaze of rage surge up once more as he remembered the cry, “He _hurt_ you.”

“It was nothing,” Connor’s eyes were blazing as well, glaring up at Haytham with all the (ineffectual) intensity the little body could muster, “and you would have killed him for it!” 

“Yes.” He met the glare coolly, “Yes I would have killed him. I still would, even now, and I would lose no sleep over it.”

The boy’s face twisted with helpless frustration, “Why?! How can you be so… so _casual_ about taking a life?!”

This again. Honestly, how the boy could still be so naïve and idealistic was beyond him. “For one thing, in this case it’s hardly the sort of life anyone would miss. Besides,” He sniffed, lifting his shoulders in a bored shrug, “I cannot stand men who harm children.”

“And if I were not a child?” Haytham froze, breath catching in his throat. Much of the fire had died down in the boy, leaving only a strange, tired confusion. Connor stared searchingly into his eyes, “If my body were still that of a man? What then? Would you… would you still have… protected me?”

He couldn’t breathe. His mind was reeling, fighting against itself. Part of him – the part he was coming to think of as his common sense – railed against the question, trying to prevent any further consideration of it. But another part – the strange, unsettling part that had been lurking inside ever since he first met Connor, that had been growing stronger ever since the boy’s impossible transformation. The part that thought about pressing kisses to injuries and forging impossible alliances ( _relationships, family_ ) – was trying to take control of him, trying to push a single word past his lips.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t say it, couldn’t even think it. The boy – the stupid, naïve, insufferable, ( _brave, compassionate, wonderful_ ) boy – was an Assassin. He was the _enemy_ , no matter how much Haytham wanted…

He was the enemy. That was all there was to it. Yes, Haytham would work with the child when they had a common enemy. Yes, he would do everything in his power to lead the boy from his ignorance, and into the light of the Templar Order. Yes, he would care for him now, when he was utterly helpless, because… Because…

_Because he’s my **son.** My little boy. Mine and Ziio’s._

_Stop it. Just **stop.** It’s not possible, it can’t be possible. I… I **can’t…**_

_My **son.**_

**_Stop it._ **

**_My son._ **

**_Stop it! Please… please I can’t…_ **

_Please. Please, he’s… he’s my son._

“Connor…” He inhaled sharply, fighting past the impossible tightness in his chest, “Connor, I-” 

Whatever he might have said – and, later, he would realize that he hadn’t even known what it would be – was cut off abruptly by a sharp rap at the door. At the sudden noise, both the man and child started, attention drawn away from one another. A moment later, when Haytham’s eyes returned to the boy, Connor had turned completely away, staring pointedly at the wall.

He sighed once again, frowning in helpless frustration. Trying (futilely) to marshal his demeanor, the Grandmaster made his way over to the door.

The moment he opened the door, Mrs. Van Etten stepped inside with all the calm certainty of a ship’s captain walking the deck. The little woman’s eyes went directly to Connor, carefully assessing his state of being, and – apparently satisfied – she nodded and turned to Haytham. “Young Connor is, I take it, well?”

He nodded slowly, “Yes.”

If his abrupt answer offended the proprietress in any way, she didn’t show it. Instead, she folded her hands neatly and nodded in turn, “That is quite a relief. Though, I must say, such is not the case elsewhere.” She looked up at Haytham calmly, lifting an eyebrow, “A doctor has seen to John Preston. His hand, I understand, is badly broken. Apparently, it seems likely that he may never recover its full use.

Haytham couldn’t stop the sneer that crossed his face at that, “A true pity.”

“Indeed.” He started at the tone, just as scornful as his own had been. Noting his mild surprise, Mrs. Van Etten added, “There will, I expect, be fewer blacked eyes, bruised throats, bloody lips, and broken limbs in our town as a result.”

“Ah.” He felt his sneer deepen involuntarily, “I am not overly surprised to hear that.”

For the briefest moment, the woman’s perfect air of restrain wavered. Much like her husband, Mrs. Van Etten seemed almost ashamed, “You must understand sir, our town is not one that encourages such behavior. However,” she was almost apologetic, seeming to ask him for leniency in his judgment of her home, “Mr. Preston – Mr. _Benjamin_ Preston, you understand – is a very powerful and influential man. Not a bad man in the slightest,” she paused, perturbed, “except, unfortunately, where the raising and managing of his son is concerned.”

_That_ explained a great deal. “I see. And I take it that few people are willing to make too much of a fuss, should the son become a… nuisance.”

The woman sighed softly, a note of disapproving frustration creeping into her face, “It is not, of course, that such behavior is encouraged. It is only…” she shook her head, “Mr. Preston is not inclined to believe the worst. He thinks it to simply be the folly of youth, the rough-play of young men. Even _should_ someone approach him, he will brush aside their concerns. And,” sighed and shook her head again, “There are few enough willing to even approach, much less take such…” she looked up at him pointedly, “drastic actions.”

If she expected any remorse or shame from Haytham, she did not find it. He met her eyes coolly, “Perhaps, if someone had taken drastic action in the past, there would not be so great a problem now.”

“Perhaps.” With that, her stately demeanor returned, obscuring any signs of weakness or unease. “It is now, I think, time to turn to other matters. I came of three purposes sir; to see of the boy’s state, to inform you of John Preston’s, and to discuss your stay in this establishment. The first two settled, as we have done, I should speak on the third.”

And there it was. Haytham nodded in understanding, “Of course, you needn’t worry. Our stay here-”

“Has no reason to be cut short.”

He froze, blinking. “I… beg your pardon?”

Mrs. Van Etten gave him a long-suffering look, “There is no reason for you and Connor to leave residence any sooner than you had planned. True, Mr. Preston will be upset; however, in this case there are many witnesses who will, I have determined, insist on the necessity of your actions.” Her lips twitched in the tiniest hint of satisfaction, “Even Mr. Preston cannot excuse the shameful harassment of a young woman and an attack on a small child, nor find grounds for offense against a defending father. And,” her eyes narrowed sharply, “despite what John Preston may think, my husband and I own this establishment. It is we, and no over important bully, who decide the eligibility of guests." 

“I…” He exhaled gently, allowing a small smile to appear, “I see.” A sudden impulse took him and he caught her hand, bowing over it deeply, “You have my thanks madam.”

The little woman actually blushed, her weathered face turning as crimson as a schoolgirl’s. She extricated her hand, just slowly enough to be polite, and mumbled a quick, “Think nothing of it.” She shook lightly, marshaling herself again. “You and young Connor will, I trust, remain with us then.”

Haytham’s smile froze, “Ah… no, actually.” Suddenly, he felt two sets of eyes boring into him. Ignoring the boy, he gave an apologetic smile to the proprietress, “Not because of anything that happened today, of course. I actually spoke to your husband about it earlier; you see, this was only a temporary stop, until I could secure a new wardrobe for Connor. It was always the plan that we leave today. Not” he added quickly, “that I am not immensely grateful for your offer.” 

“Indeed.” A shadow of the previous day’s lecture crossed the woman’s face, “If I may impose, somewhat, and ask where you will be going?” Her eyes narrowed in sharp suspicion, “It is, I trust, a place suitable for a small child.”

How exactly this tiny female could make him – the Grandmaster of the Templar Order and veritable angel of death – feel like a little boy again was beyond him. Pushing that thought aside, he briefly entertained the idea of giving some false story. As a general rule, it was best to not give any unnecessary information to those who were not implicitly trusted allies. And yet… No. Somehow, it just didn’t seem right to lie to this woman, not now. “I have a small cabin, not overly far from town. We will be staying there.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Connor stiffen, “It’s nothing that special,” he continued, ignoring the boy again, “but is more than serviceable.”

Mrs. Van Etten stared at him for a moment, then nodded, “Very well. I shall see that your account is ready for your departure.” Slowly, her face softened, “You will, I trust, feel willing to return here, should the cabin prove insufficient or should you find yourself in town once more.”

He smiled and nodded, “Madam, we wouldn’t dream of going elsewhere.” With that, he gave another polite bow, and saw the landlady out. His smile lingered, and he shook his head wryly; the formidable lady was certainly pleasant… if a bit strange. And strangely terrifying. He shook his head again. At least now he could have a moment to breathe before leaving the-

“When exactly were you going to tell me about your ‘small cabin,’ Haytham?”

…

He let his head fall against the doorframe with a dull _thud._

One minute. Just _one_. That wasn’t too much to ask, was it? Was he not even allowed a single minute’s peace to collect himself at this point?

Pinching the bridge of his nose in response to his returning headache, Haytham turned back to the cause of all his frustration. The earlier vulnerability had fled Connor entirely, leaving the surly, suspicious brat with whom Haytham was most used to dealing. Of course, it seemed that the boy _still_ didn’t realize how utterly nonthreatening he was, which made the presented image simultaneously laughable, adorable, and aggravating. Honestly, Haytham was _not_ supposed to find his Assassin spawn ‘adorable.’ He wasn’t supposed to find _any_ Assassin adorable. It was just inherently wrong and, frankly, he wasn’t starting to get annoyed with how frequently he was using the word.

_And yet_ … there the boy was: tiny, pudgy, trying to be intimidating, and utterly, unequivocally _adorable_. He was even crossing his arms over his chest petulantly. And the look on his face… oh the little, chubby, pouting face that thought it was menacing. Soon, and very soon indeed, Haytham was going to have to find a mirror so he could show Connor how he looked in such moments. He had no doubt the reaction would be sublimely poetic. And funny.

Haytham sighed for the umpteenth time that morning and started towards the bed, “Well,” he gave into impulse and rolled his eyes, “yesterday morning you were freezing to death, then you decided to throw a tantrum about getting dressed, then you threw another tantrum about keeping yourself fed and clean, then you threw _another_ tantrum and refused to go to sleep – even though you _clearly_ needed to – and then,” stopping in front of the boy he bent to eye level, face a study in deadpan sardonicism, “you spent the next sixteen hours in various stages of sleep. After which you actually _refrained_ from throwing another tantrum, but apparently decided to spend the entire morning being sulky instead, until you were attacked by a pathetic excuse for a man, after which you decided to complain about my rescuing you from said pathetic excuse for a man.” He straightened again, staring down at the boy with a sort of long-suffering annoyance, “So I don’t know, Connor.” He spread his hands in mock entreaty, “When exactly was I _supposed_ to tell you about my small cabin?”

Connor stared up at him, face all but twitching with frustration. He opened his mouth several times, only to snap it shut immediately.

“Well?” He made a beckoning gesture at the boy, who merely pouted balefully at him. After a minute of silence, Haytham gave a short, scoffing laugh, “That’s what I thought.” And then, with that, he turned away from his son and began to pack away their few belongings for the trip.

################

Connor didn’t say another word as they prepared to depart, for which Haytham was simultaneously glad and oddly perturbed. Instead, the boy remained on the bed, ignoring Haytham almost pointedly. Focusing on the – increasingly rare – peace and quiet, Haytham determined to ignore the boy in turn.

Several minutes later he had secured the meager possession – Connor only having the few things bought the other day, and Haytham preferring to travel light whenever possible. He shouldered the small bags, “Alright, time to go.” He waited for a moment as the boy roused himself, sliding off the bed to land with a gentle thud. After several steps towards the door, however, Haytham sighed in weary frustration and held out a hand to stop him. “ _Really,_ Connor?” He rolled his eyes at the boy’s – painfully fake – show of innocence, “Connor, put the hat back on.”

Ignoring the annoyed pout, Haytham waited until the boy was fully dressed, then opened the door. As the boy reached him, a sudden impulse swept over the Templar. Quickly – almost as though he needed to strike while his courage held – he reached down and took hold of one of Connor’s little hands. The boy jerked, staring up at him in confused surprise. In response, Haytham gave a stilted smirk, “Well I can hardly have you getting in any more trouble, now can I?”

Connor pouted up at him for that, then sniffed and looked away. But, Haytham noted, he didn’t pull his hand away.

Feeling strangely warm, Haytham led the way downstairs. If his thumb happened to brush gently back and forth against Connor’s tiny hand, it was certainly only because he was trying to keep a hold on the boy. Reaching the ground floor, they stopped briefly to pay the small bill then, that settled, stepped into the cold of the early morning.

Someone had seen to Haytham’s horse, which was saddled and stood before the tavern, ready to depart. Mr. Van Etten, holding the animal’s reins, exchanged a few words of farewell, before handing over the reins and heading back inside. That left Haytham, Connor, the horse, and the young woman standing timidly a few feet away.

Realizing she had been seen, Lisbet crept forward. Several steps away from the pair, she stopped abruptly, ducking her head, “Mr. Kenway, I…” the girl was pale, and her trembling did not come from the cold alone. She gave out a shaking sigh, then continued, “I know you were only acting to protect Connor… but I… I wanted…”

“Dear girl,” he cut her off gently, “I am only sorry I did not interfere sooner. The behavior of that… _‘gentleman,_ ’” he put all the scorn as he possessed in that word, “was simply appalling. Not only in regards to Connor, but to you as well.” When she peered up at him from under her bangs, Haytham noted the lingering traces of fear in her eyes, and put on the most comforting – and, more importantly, nonthreatening – smile he could muster. “I only trust that I did not frighten you myself.” He shrugged helplessly, suddenly the perfect image of a mild, gentle man, “I know my methods were quite startling, but sometimes it takes such things to show one the error of his ways.” He allowed his smile to widen, and leaned in with the appearance of a conspirator, “Though, I’m not sure how well things would work, should the young Mr. John Preston learn my pistol was unloaded.”

The girl started sharply at that, staring up at him with wide eyes. Then, suddenly, a brilliant smile lit up her face. “Oh Mr. Kenway…” she blushed, looking pleasantly embarrassed, “I… I really knew you couldn’t be a… well, the sort of man who would…” she giggled slightly, blushing deeper. “It’s only… well, anyone who sees you with Connor, how you are with him… well, they would _know_ that you’re the kindest, warmest, most…” she stopped abruptly, face burning as she realized what she was saying, and stammered a quick apology. An apology which, thankfully, prevented her from hearing Connor’s sharp bark of disbelieving laughter.

Without missing a beat, Haytham scooped Connor up into his arms, chuckling lightly as he pulled the boy close and pressed a pointed hand on the back of his neck. “Think nothing of it dear girl. Though, I must say,” he turned his head to look at Connor, cupping the boy’s cheek and putting on the most adoring expression he could muster, “how _anyone_ could do less than dote on a child as sweet and _precious_ as my little Connor, is simply beyond me.” He stroked his thumb across the chubby cheek, “Isn’t that right, my little darling?”

Connor met his adoring mask with a look that clearly said: _‘This is **beneath** you, old man.’_

Haytham merely deepened his smile, noting how the young girl seemed ready to explode into squeals or swoon, and patted the cheek, “Of _course_ it is.”

He was still smirking a few minutes later, when he finally managed to make his farewells to the – now fully adoring – girl, and mounted the horse, Connor tucked securely in his lap. Then, finally, he steered the horse away from the tavern, out of the town, and towards the cabin.

They rode in silence for several minutes, Haytham taking the time to enjoy the crisp air. Strangely, he also noted how… pleasant it was, to have the boy tucked against him. He allowed himself another smile, now one that was genuinely pleased. Even with the percussive force of the horse’s hooves, he could feel the gentle patter of Connor’s heartbeat. Discreetly, he brought his arms together slightly, tucking the boy a little closer against his chest.

“It is so easy for you.”

Distracted as he was, it took Haytham a long moment to realize that the boy had spoken. Shaking his head slightly, he glanced down, “What is?”

Connor didn’t look up at him, simply letting his little head rest against Haytham’s chest, “Lying.”

_For pity’s sake…_

Haytham fought back an explosive sigh. Why? Why did the boy always have to be so… _difficult_?! Why did he _constantly_ have to question and challenge _everything_ Haytham did? Why couldn’t he just accept that, in some cases, Haytham might just know better? Why couldn’t the child just trust that, even once in a while, his father might possibly know what he was doing?

He took a long moment before speaking again, fighting back the frustration that inevitably threatened to come pouring out whenever he was near Connor. “Would you rather,” he finally said, “that I leave the girl stewing in her own fear?” He felt the boy stiffen, and pressed on, “I know that you’re absurdly naïve about the way in which the world _truly_ works, but even you must have _some_ degree of sense. Or,” he scoffed condescendingly, “is this _more_ of your precious Assassin doctrine?” He waited for a moment then, when Connor did not respond, scoffed again, “That’s what I thought.”

Connor remained stiff in his arms, face pressed against his chest. Several minutes later, the boy’s head was dropping slowly, exhaustion apparently taking hold of the little boy once more. Then, voice lightly slurred by the first stages of sleep, Connor spoke. “I am not as naïve as you think Haytham.” Underneath the sleep, there was a strange note in Connor’s voice. From another child, Haytham would have taken it for a deeply hurt sorrow. Not that it was possible in this case, not with Connor. No, no not possible in the slightest. And yet… when the boy spoke again it was there, more prominent than before. “And I did not mean what you said about the pistol.”

Haytham stiffened, breath catching in his throat as his mind reeled, as he realized just what Connor was saying. Feeling a sick twisting in his stomach, he opened his mouth and looked down at the boy.

Connor was already asleep. Haytham stared down at his son, at the little face pressed against his chest, and the dark marks of a few tears standing out on his cheeks.

Breathing heavily, shakily, Haytham spurred his horse onwards, towards the cabin. Drawing his arms in yet again, he pulled his sleeping child even closer. But even then, he felt his earlier pleasure at the morning chill, at the warmth in his arms, fade away. In its place was a deeper, sharper cold, one that seeped mercilessly into him and settled deep within.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _..._  
>  _..._  
>  _..._  
>     
>  _So..._
> 
> _*clears throat and brushes cobwebs from story*_
> 
> _Hey everyone... how ya doin? It hasn't been... _that_ long since I've updated this. Or, you know, anything. Nope. Not that long at all._
> 
> _..._  
>  _..._  
>  _..._
> 
> _*collapses to ground in shame and misery* My existence is lower than that of a dead fish. I should be reborn as a stray dog. My apologizes that I have been treading the same earth as everyone else! TT^TT_

_-Day Two-_

Connor was still asleep when they finally arrived at the cabin. The boy was, Haytham noted, spending an inordinate amount of this post-transformation time sleeping. Really, he was torn between being thankful for the peace, and being worried that the child had some sort of narcoleptic disorder. He honestly did not know how much sleep a toddler required – particularly when that toddler had been mysteriously de-aged from adulthood, and subjected to a series of increasingly stressful situations and near constant emotional turmoil – but this _had_ to be somewhat excessive.

Still… at least when the boy was asleep, he wasn’t actively upending Haytham’s world and grasp of reality. Which was, if nothing else, a pleasant change.

Coming to a stop by the cabin door, Haytham gently dismounted, trying to disturb the sleeping child as little as possible. Thankfully, Connor’s only response to the sudden change was to let out a tiny groan and snuggle closer to his father, tiny fingers tightening where they gripped Haytham’s shirt.

Really, why couldn’t the boy be this not-infuriating when he was awake?

Readjusting his hold so that Connor rested securely against his chest, Haytham quickly fixed the reigns to a small hitching post and made his way inside the cabin.

The building’s interior was as he last left it, the only change being a notable layer of dust on every flat surface. That aside it was just as he liked his residences: orderly and functional with no unnecessary frills, but comfortable enough for a stay of any length. The small building stood at one and a half stories, with a wooden floor, thick walls, and a well-built roof. The main floor had a serviceable area for preparing meals, two sturdy tables – one for mealtime and the other for repairing weapons or human bodies – and several equally sturdy, though pointedly comfortable, chairs. A small stairwell led to the top of the cabin, where a sleeping area with two beds lay. Finally, several windows were placed throughout both levels, all settled to provide excellent vantage points and equipped with heavy shutters.

All in all, it was the perfect refuge: sturdy, defensible, and just comfortable enough that several Templars might be to share it for extended periods of time without murdering one another.

And, hopefully, it would afford the same benefit for a Templar and child Assassin.

That wish firmly in mind, Haytham set the boy gently into one of the most comfortable chairs – waving away the resulting cloud of dust before the boy suffocated – and went to start a fire in the furnace.

By the time he had a steady blaze going, Connor was beginning to stir. From his spot in the kitchen-area, Haytham kept the child in his peripheral gaze while he prepared two plates from his travel rations. Later, he reflected while sparing a quick glance down at the meal, he would have to attain some fresh ingredients for stew. Heavens knew the boy was currently much easier to feed on a semi-liquid diet.

A low, sleepy moan drew his attention back to Connor. The boy was slowly sitting upright, rubbing at his eyes with two tiny hands. After a moment he lowered his hands, only to freeze, staring at his surroundings in half-asleep bewilderment.

“Welcome back to the world of the living,” Haytham sniffed, picking up both plates and heading for the dining table, “I was beginning to wonder whether you had entered a state of hibernation.”

For once, Connor didn’t rise to the jibe, instead contenting himself with blinking sleepily at Haytham. Torn between feeling pleased and disappointed, the Templar set the plates down and gestured towards them, then pulled out a chair – the seat of which was occupied by several appropriated blankets – when the child slowly began his approach. Still muddled by sleep, Connor barely managed a look of annoyance when Haytham scooped him up, deposited him on the chair, and pushed over a plate. Likewise, the boy did little more than frown at Haytham when he looked at the plate, noting how the dried meat and fruit had been cut into tiny bite-sized morsels. But, merciful heavens be praised, Connor’s post-nap docility held long enough for a peaceful meal to be completed.

By the time they finished eating Connor seemed to be – finally – awake. Feet dangling from his chair – though, thankfully, not kicking anything _this time_ – the boy quietly watched as he cleared the table. After several minutes, he heard a tiny sigh from the child, “Alright, what now?” Haytham glanced at the boy, meeting Connor’s expectant gaze, “You said it was always your intent to come here, and now we have arrived. So…” Connor sighed again, slumping wearily in his chair, “so what are we to do now? At least tell me you have some sort of plan.”

Haytham stared at Connor a while longer, processing what the boy had said. It was just… _strange_ hearing words like that from such a young child’s mouth. _Particularly,_ he reflected, when the child in question could not even pronounce two of the most common consonants in the English language. 

Eventually he pulled his thoughts from this lesser issue and moved on to formulating a reply. Thinking over the boy’s words… Haytham found he did not particularly want to answer that question honestly. 

Not even to himself.

At last though, fighting back a – fairly undignified – shrug and sigh of his own, Haytham swallowed his pride and replied, “At present? The plan is to keep you away from the world at large until I can think of an actual plan.”

All things considered, Connor’s toddler face managed to marshal his typical _‘you really are simple-minded, old man, and I cannot believe I have to put up with you’_ look all too well.

Of course, it could just be that Haytham was so used to seeing that expression that he instinctively recognized any signs of it... 

He bit back an annoyed growl at that thought. Disrespectful little brat. Pinching the bridge of his nose against yet _another_ headache, Haytham stared down at the boy, “I’m ever so sorry to inconvenience you; really, I must be getting slow in my old age.” His stare intensified somewhat, “Normally, I would have half-a-dozen plans in mind _immediately_ after coming across my miraculously de-aged child in the middle of the woods, with absolutely no indication of what caused his transformation or how to reverse it.” During this, he had made for the table, and now leaned against it to better look down upon Connor in annoyance, “Truly,” he waved a hand in a dramatic display of despair, “my mental faculties are abandoning me entirely.”

Connor held his gaze, utterly unimpressed. “You are still not funny.” The boy sniffed, glancing away in a sort of bored condescension, “And so much for Templar superiority.”

Haytham felt another growl building in his throat, and for a moment his hands twisted in the air, almost as though clutching a little neck. At length, he sighed firmly, took several deep breaths, and looked down at the boy, “And _**what**_ ,” he glared down at the boy, “exactly, would you have me do?”

A pair of large brown eyes stared up at him imploringly, _“Fix this.”_

He could only stare back, registering the perfectly expectant look, subtly undercut by a shadow of desperation. For a moment, something stirred in him, a bewildering joy that the child actually thought him capable of singlehandedly resolving the impossible. That even in the face of evidence to the contrary, Connor fully expected him to have answers or a solution. The blind faith was ridiculous, absurd, impossible, and in any other situation would have incensed him with its pathetic naivety. And yet, against all reason and against his very character, it made him want to sweep the boy into his arms. It made him _want_ to be able to fix everything.

And it made it hurt all the worse that he _couldn’t_.

Swallowing against the strange knot in his throat, Haytham closed his eyes tightly, shook his head in an attempt to dispel his own irrationality, then looked back at the boy. “Connor, somehow it seems that you _still_ do not fully grasp how impossible this situation is.” Haytham opened his hands towards the boy, almost imploringly, “So please, listen to me, and try to understand what I say. Connor,” he leaned down to the child’s eye-level, “men do not become children. It does not happen. It is impossible. I do not know what to do in this situation, because _no one_ could know what to do in this situation, because this situation _violates all laws of logic and reality_.” He stopped for a moment, breathing deeply. “So please, Connor,” he reached out his hands, clasping the boy’s shoulders firmly, “ _Please_ , be reasonable. Have mercy. And give me time to, _somehow_ , create a plan to fix the impossible.” He stared even more intently into the boy’s eyes, “Is that too much to ask?”

The boy stared up at him, and Haytham tried to ignore the stab of pain that came from the hurt expression on the child’s face. After a moment the boy looked down, worrying his lower lip slightly between his teeth, and nodded.

Haytham nodded in turn and, smothering the irrational feelings of guilt and helplessness, returned to cleaning up after their meal.

‘Maybe,’ he thought, ‘just maybe, the two of us can actually manage to get through this impossible experience _alive_.’

################

_-Day Six-_

He was going to kill the boy.

Though he wasn’t certain he could call himself a ‘good man,’ Haytham Kenway was a man with standards; one of those standards, in particular, being that he would not harm a child. But even a man with standards had his limits, and Connor seemed to have made it his mission in life to challenge, cross, trample, and maim every. Last. Blessed. _One of them._

Not that Connor ever – even under the best of circumstances – conducted himself with anything that resembled manners or decorum. Indeed, Haytham would’ve cited Connor’s upbringing in the wilderness as a cause for his _complete_ inability to interact with other human beings, but for the fact that he had met a fair number of Kanien'kehá:ka men and women who were _perfectly_ capable of civility. As such, he was fully convinced that Connor was, quite simply, utterly inept in all things social and completely devoid of any respect for his elders. Such as his father.

 _Particularly_ his father.

And, again, that was Connor on a _good_ day. Connor in his _current_ state was worse. Much, much, _**much**_ worse.

He had been lulled into a state of hopeful complacency on the second day of Connor’s impossible transformation. The boy had, once more, spent the bulk of the day asleep, and had at least been… something that vaguely resembled civil in his waking moments. It had been rather like their typical interactions; save, of course, for the fairly obvious change that Connor was in his logic-defying toddler state. It hadn’t been delightful by any stretch of the word, but it had been tolerable.

The third day had been much the same: the vaguest hint of civility, occasional awkward and stilted conversations, tense mealtimes, and much of the day spent in slumber.

The fourth and fifth days had not been so pleasant, being punctuated by simmering aggression, stubborn refusal to accept help, and the occasional fit of temper. However, none of these moments had escalated to outright conflict or tantrums, and so Haytham merely rationalized them as a result of Connor’s returning distaste for naps, and a pair of fairly restless nights. As such, he had decided while putting Connor to bed, everything would improve once the boy slept well.

Then the sixth day began, the sun rising in all its glory. And, with it, came the full force of Connor’s petulant fury and disrespect.

In all its glory.

The boy was surly when he woke, even more utterly thunderous of demeanor and venomous of tongue than usual. The boy instituted the _Second_ Battle of the Wardrobe, which was far, _far_ worse than the First. Squirming and fighting against Haytham every step of the way, the child spent over an hour claiming that the warmth and isolation of the cabin removed the necessity for being fully dressed, trying to get away with only wearing the knee-breeches and undershirt, and all but throwing a tantrum when Haytham – finally – wrestled him into _all_ of his clothes. Even with the sudden lack of coordination and shortened limbs, it took all of Haytham’s skill to avoid being struck by tiny hands and feet, and he spent the rest of the day preventing the child from shedding articles of clothing.

By the time the boy was dressed, both sets of nerves were well past the point of being frayed. This, of course, did not make the purportedly simple task of consuming breakfast any less Herculean. For some reason, Connor chose that morning to develop an intense hatred for porridge – a dish that he had _never_ had a problem with in the past. The boy had resolutely settled back in his chair, arms crossed, glowering at the bowl of porridge with such intensity that Haytham half expected to see the image of Charles Lee in the mush. He had maintained that position and expression throughout the entirety of Haytham’s meal, refusing to move an inch and – incidentally – unsettling his father’s digestion. Attempts at gentle persuasion and logical arguments had finally given way to frustration, and he informed the boy that he could sit there until the next day if he wanted, for he would not leave the table until he consumed _some_ portion of his meal. That at least received some compliance, but even then the boy only deigned to swallow a few mouthfuls, leaving behind a nearly full bowl.

The awkward stress of breakfast over, an even more awkward atmosphere occupied the interval between meals. While Haytham set about executing some necessary household tasks, Connor deposited himself in one of cabin’s chairs and spent the next few hours doing his best impression of a thundercloud. In fact, the gloomy pout on the boy’s face only ever lifted when Haytham came into sight, at which point the little face transformed into a mask of sheer disdain and vague loathing. Several hours into this display, the Templar did have to admit that the sheer amount of dedication Connor could muster was impressive; he simply wished that dedication could be applied to more worthy – _Templar approved_ – endeavors.

Dinner had been no better than breakfast. In the end it had taken the threat of force-feeding to get the petulant child fed – far less, Haytham noted with something that _was not_ intense concern, than was healthy for a child of Connor’s present age.

By the time the afternoon was underway, Haytham’s nerves were so shot that his missives were thoroughly riddled with mistakes and stains that – for once – he couldn’t directly blame on Connor. The atmosphere was, by this point, so tense it could have suffocated a lesser man. Things became so painfully awkward that, after finishing a fairly shoddy reply to one of his subordinates, Haytham actually attempted to start up a conversation with the boy.

…

That hadn’t ended well.

…

Connor threw a shoe at his head. Haytham very nearly threw it back.

They lapsed back into painfully awkward silence after that ill-fated idea, and by a quarter past three Haytham felt as though he would snap if so much as a pin dropped.

And then, as the stars in their courses clearly _hated_ Haytham Kenway, a pin dropped.

A pin named Connor Kenway.

Haytham was several lines into a letter to Charles when Connor – who had spent the last half hour or so trying not to nod off – fell from his chair and slammed into the floor with a sharp outcry of pain. Startled, Haytham leapt to his feet – his heart simultaneously leaping into his throat – and darted over to the boy, nearly upending the table and fully overturning the inkwell in his panicked haste.

“Connor?!”

A pair of unfocused brown eyes stared blankly up at him for a moment. Then, after a few unsteady blinks, clarity began to return; and, to Haytham’s rapidly growing horror, the clarity was accompanied by a sudden tremble of the boy’s lower lip and a veil of water over his eyes.

“Connor, what - !” at some point he had knelt by the child, running his hands over his scalp in search of bumps. “Did you hit your head, or…” The boy, who had been staring up at him in bewildered confusion, suddenly sprung to life again, squirming wildly and bating at his hands. “Connor, what are you - ?!” A tiny hand nearly connected with Haytham’s face, drawing a barely restrained growl of frustration, “For goodness _sake_ boy, would you stop and let me – _Connor_!”

Somehow Connor managed to extricate himself from Haytham’s grasp, pressing himself against the chair and staring up with an expression of barely constrained rage. “ _Stop_.”

“Connor...” He stared down in bewilderment for a moment, before heaving an explosive sigh and reaching out again, “Boy, what in the blazes - ?!”

_**”I said stop!”** _

Over the past few days, Haytham had – to some small degree – grown used to the boy’s new form, diminished coordination, and complete lack of physical power. Connor was a child; small, fragile, and helpless. And yet, somehow, the impact of Connor’s tiny fist glancing off his jaw rocked Haytham back on his heels.

A perfect silence fell over the room. And, as though to complement the silence, a sickly cold took root in Haytham’s chest.

“Alright then.” Slowly, he rose to his feet, staring down in quiet fury. “You must pardon me,” the words came out in a sardonic hiss, “but it appears I lost my head and forgot with whom I was dealing. I should have known better than to waste my time worrying about an ungrateful, self-righteous little _brat_ who is too moronic to care for himself properly, too proud to accept the help he needs, and too _bloody full of himself_ to realize just how lost and ignorant he is about the _entire. Damned. **World.”**_ Haytham was shaking now, words surging forth that he had been restraining since he first met his maddening offspring. “I am _sorry_ that I brought myself to overlook all this, time and again; that I’ve dealt with your constant ingratitude and pathetically naïve ideals, that I’ve lowered myself to help you, always in the futile hope that _someday_ you’ll grow up enough to see sense and stop wasting your life! _**Damn it Connor!**_ ” He lashed out, kicking one of the other chairs and toppling it with a thunderous bang, _“Just what in the **hell** do you want from me?!”_ His shaking grew worse, violent, and he fisted his hands in his hair, uncaring of how that disarrayed it, “I try to help you, again and again and again, and all you ever do is throw my kindness back in my face. Even now, even when you’re utterly _helpless_ , incapable of even feeding yourself, dressing yourself, protecting yourself, doing _anything_ for yourself… even now, even in this impossible state where you look like the lost and helpless little _child_ you truly are, you _still. Won’t. Listen to me!_ Won’t let me help you, won’t accept that just this _once_ I might actually know what in the _hell_ I’m doing!” At some point he had begun pacing, but here he stopped, shaking, staring down at the boy, _“Just this **once** , why can’t you accept that you might **need me**?!”_

Haytham broke off, trembling uncontrollably and, gasping for breath, stared at the boy. Nothing. Connor was perfectly still, head bowed towards the floor. A hysterical sound – somewhere between a laugh and a sob – escaped him, and he turned away, aimlessly walking until one of the tables blocked his path. For a moment he stood, perfectly still; then, suddenly, his hand lashed out of its own accord, fist slamming into the surface of the table. _**“Damn it.”**_ He hunched over shuddering, hands fisted against the table and head hanging limply.

“I never asked.”

…

He could barely muster the strength to raise his head, glancing back at the boy from the corner of his eye. “What?”

Connor hadn’t moved from his spot at the foot of the chair, “I never asked you for help. I never asked to be ‘enlightened’ or ‘protected.’ I never _asked_ for your ‘kindness.’ … _Kindness?_ ” The boy’s hands were curled into fists, now trembling furiously in his lap, and with a strangled growl he whipped his head towards Haytham, “When have you _ever_ shown me ‘kindness’ that was not tainted by your mockery, your condescension, or your cruelty? When have you _ever_ offered help that does not come with a price or serve your own goals? What advice or ‘education’ have you _ever_ given me that is not merely an attack against me or my beliefs – against my _life_?!” Connor bolted to his feet, eyes blazing with rage, “Since the first day we met you have not _once_ passed over an opportunity to insult me! No matter how hard I try to please you, _nothing_ I do is ever good enough, _I_ am never good enough to satisfy you, and you _never_ hesitate to let me know how completely I have failed or how ‘idiotic’ I am!” The boy was trembling helplessly now, “Even if I have no way of knowing something, or am in a situation beyond my control, you do not care! You tell me that I am foolish and weak, you constantly belittle me, and when I fail to meet your _impossible_ expectations you act as though I did it to spite you! And this…” he trailed off for a moment, shaking and gasping for breath, before his glare intensified, “this is the _‘kindness’_ I am meant to thank you for?!”

Haytham stared down at the boy, mouth slack in his shock. “C… Connor…” His brow furrowed sharply, “Boy, I have already put up with more of your childish temper tantrums than I can stand, and if you think I will tolerate another than you must –”

“ _ **Stop!**_ ”

The cry cut Haytham off entirely, words catching in his throat as he stared in shock, trying to process the tears the sight of tears welling in Connor’s eyes.

“Just stop, _**please.**_ ” The boy was trembling violently, face twisting as he tried to hold back the tears, “Just stop. I cannot… I just… no more, Haytham, _please_.”

A sick sensation twisted Haytham’s stomach, “I… Connor, I didn’t-”

“Did not what?” Connor breathed a disbelieving laugh, “Did not mean to prove me right? Again?!” There was a touch of frustrated disbelief in his voice, “Do you even realize that you do it? Do you even care? Is cruelty so natural to you that you need not think to do it?! Or…” A strange expression – Haytham couldn’t except that it resembled understanding – crossed Connor’s face, “Or is it just me? Is that it? Are you so ashamed of me, do you _hate_ me so much that saying such things mean _nothing_ to you?! Is that why you have been tormenting me like this? Pretending to care for me one moment and then turning on me the next? Does my pain and humiliation bring you such joy?”

“ _What?!_ Connor, what are you -”

“This is not my fault!” The boy barely seemed aware of his continued presence. “I do not know how this,” he gestured sharply at his diminished form, “happened, and I do not want it! I am _trapped_ in this body that I cannot control, that I cannot remember how to live in, and I…” he choked back a sob, “I just want to be myself again. I want things to make sense. I want to stop feeling ashamed and pathetic and afraid at all times. I just… I _hate_ this. I am _not_ a child.” Suddenly the rage returned to Connor’s eyes, refocusing on the astounded Templar, “And I want _you_ to stop treating me like one! I want you to stop blaming me for things that are _not_ my fault, that I _cannot_ control! I want you to stop mocking me and treating me like I am worthless because of this _stupid_ body!” He was all but wailing now, the last word punctuated by the stamp of a little foot. “I am _not_ stupid! I am _not_ worthless! I…” he fought back another sob, “I… I am _not_.” Connor shook his head violently, scrubbing a fist against his eyes before looking back at Haytham, expression caught between anguish and rage, “And since you think I am, why do you not just _leave_?!”

“Connor!” The Templar staggered forward with a jerk, reaching out to the boy, “Connor I _don’t_ -”

The boy stumbled away from him, “Stop _lying_ to me! Just _stop!_ ” In his retreat, Connor’s foot caught against a chair-leg, and he tumbled back to the ground. No sooner had Haytham reached his side than the boy’s fists were swinging again, “Do not _touch me_!” He pushed away, out of Haytham’s reach, “Stop pretending like you care when I know you do not! I…” he batted one of the Templar’s hands away, “I am _glad_ Mother made you leave, I am _glad_ I did not grow up with you as a father!”

_“Connor -”_

_**“I hate you!”** _

Silence fell over the room once more.

Haytham froze, kneeling over Connor, his mind blank. For a long moment neither moved, eyes locked on one another.

Then, slowly, Haytham rose to his feet, turned his back on Connor, and walked out of the cabin.

################

Haytham wasn’t certain how long he sat there, looking out over the small creek. Some hours maybe? The sun was beginning to set, so two hours at least. He had never before been prone to melodrama, but he couldn’t help but think it felt as though an eternity had passed.

He felt…

Breathing a sigh, Haytham cradled his face in his hands.

Damn the boy. Damn the contentious, pigheaded, infuriating, self-righteous, idiotic little –

 _– I am_ not _stupid! I… I am_ not! _–_

He hissed sharply, digging his fingers into his scalp. No. No, he hadn’t meant that. No matter the boy’s faults, he… he didn’t think Connor was stupid. He _didn’t_. He was just frustrated, that was all. Frustrated, overtired, and strained. Heavens, _anyone_ would be after the last days he’d had! Impossible circumstances, no respite, and constant proximity to an _ungrateful_ little whelp who could scarcely function without constant support and guidance… _anyone_ would have out of sorts. Honestly, that his own child could be so thoroughly ridiculous, so completely ill-behaved was _mortifying_ beyond –

_– Is cruelty so natural to you? Are you so ashamed of me? –_

_**No.**_ His fingers dug in further, twisting into his hair. No, it wasn’t true. He wasn’t… he _didn’t…_

And anyway, just because Connor was hopelessly naïve did _not_ automatically mean Haytham was some sort of bloodthirsty, sadistic monster. He _was **not**_ cruel. He did not enjoy the things he had to do – healthy satisfaction of a job well done aside – and he always, _always_ did his utmost to avoid violent actions or unnecessary loss of life whenever possible.

_– You did not have to kill him! –_

It was just unavoidable sometimes! One couldn’t just leave enemy combatants in their wake, it wasn’t _safe_. That he understood such a simple fact while Connor didn’t was not his fault; no, if anything it was the boy’s. And just as naivety and an absurd lack of common sense did not make one a shining hero, neither did practicality and a realism make one a cruel villain. No. No, Connor was _wrong_ about him. He just…didn’t understand. It was all due to a lack of understanding, pure and simple. It wasn’t that Haytham was a monster, and it was _not_ that Connor was an imbecile; no, it was merely that Connor was naïve, and – though frustrating at times – that was no great mark against the boy. Naivety could be remedied. Connor was young still – even in his proper state – and once he realized how much his father had to offer, how the Templar simply knew _better_ , and opened himself to be properly educated then –

 _– What advice or ‘education’ have you_ ever _given me that is not merely an attack against me or my beliefs – against my_ life _?! –_

 _ **Damn**_ Davenport, the miserable old cripple. Was it any wonder Connor was so misguided, so confused from all the lies he was being force-fed? Oh yes, the cause and ideals of the Assassins _sounded_ so grand and glorious with the sweet promise of freedom. Haytham knew all too well how many men and women had been drawn in by that lovely dream only to discover it was merely that – a dream: pretty, alluring, and impossible.

Haytham’s father had come to believe in that dream, and it had cost him his life. And, so long as any glimmer of hope existed, Haytham would do everything in his power to make sure that dream did not claim his son’s life as well.

No. No, Haytham would _not_ let the Assassin’s Brotherhood claim another Kenway; no matter what pretty lies Davenport spun. And if that meant Connor thought him cruel, overbearing, insulting, or… or whatever else Connor thought of him, well then so be it. The boy would come to see the light someday, and would thank him. Even if he didn’t, at least Connor would be _alive_ to think ill of him.

He nodded – somewhat shakily – to himself at that thought, slowly easing his hands from his hair and leaning against the tree at his back. Breathing deeply, the Templar forced himself to relax.

It wasn’t his fault. Connor just didn’t understand _why_ he normally acted the way he did, the necessity of it. And all that… that _foolishness_ about Haytham mistreating the boy since his transformation… well, Connor was simply overwrought. He had barely slept these past few days, which fully explained the boy’s hysterical delusions of persecution. The idea that Haytham had been ‘tormenting’ Connor – intentionally or otherwise – was beyond ridiculous, as was the thought that he took any joy from the boy’s state. Honestly, the very thought was laughable! It was _Haytham_ who was most troubled by the change, who was most tormented; heavens, all Connor had to do was behave himself. Haytham was the one doing all the hard work – with absolutely no help or gratitude – and _Connor_ thought he was having a difficult time?! He would laugh at the inanity of it all if everything wasn’t so blasted frustrating.

Honestly, how Connor could think he was intentionally trying to hurt him…

Haytham growled, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes to stave off the strengthening headache. Why? Why was he so suddenly plagued by all this doubt and guilt? For pity’s sake, he had _never_ been so prone to doubting himself and he most certainly had _nothing_ about which to feel guilty!

True he had found some amusement in the whole strange ordeal… every once in a while. But these situations were just so absurd that _anyone_ would have found them amusing. The ways that Connor tried to carry out tasks as though he were still a man grown, and the ways he failed so utterly, would have made even a stone like Charles shake with laughter. If the boy would only put aside his overgrown pride he would have seen that.

Trying to cut his meat, falling into his stew, and the other day when he managed to literally sneeze himself off his feet – heavens, even now the recollection made him smile. The boy was just so… well, _adorable_. He could barely bring himself to think it – his inner Templar even cringed somewhat at the word – but it truly suited Connor now. More and more Haytham found himself laughing longer and harder, just to suppress the ridiculous urge to catch the boy up and squeeze him.

Though… Haytham’s hands stilled over his eyes. Though, he supposed it was entirely possible that such actions could be slightly misunderstood – by someone who wasn’t thinking clearly or paying attention – as an act of ridicule. Maybe... maybe Connor thought…

No. For pity’s sake no. Even at his most thick-headed Connor wasn’t _that_ oblivious. Of course Connor wouldn’t see such a natural, innocent amusement as anything malicious.

Right?

Haytham growled yet again, head falling back against the tree with an undignified thud. This was getting ridiculous. A bit longer and he would be so wracked with doubt that he would no longer be able to function. Clearly the sleep deprivation was affecting him more seriously than he thought.

 _Oh of course, that_ must _be it. It couldn’t possibly be that Connor was_ right _about him_

‘No it _isn’t_ possible. Connor doesn’t know me, and he has no idea what he was talking about.’

_Well, you’re right about that at least. After all, how exactly is he meant to know anything about you? You were never there for him_

‘I didn’t have that _chance._ Ziio pushed me away, never even _tried_ to tell me about him. If I had known… if I had known about him then _nothing_ would have stopped me from being in his life.’

 _And once you_ were _in his life? What then? Have you_ once _acted like a proper father? Have you done_ anything _to truly connect with Connor, to get to know him, to let him know you?_

‘Of course I have! I have tried again and again and _again_. Since we met I’ve done _nothing_ but reach out to that boy; is it my fault if he keeps rejecting me?’

 _Oh yes, you’ve tried_ so _hard to be his father. One can easily see your Herculean effort in the fact that your son_ thinks you hate him

‘And how is that _my_ fault?! No matter how many times I tell him that I want to help, that I want what is best for him, he consistently refuses to believe anything but the worst of me! I…’ Haytham bit back a whimper, nails biting into his scalp, “I want what’s best for the boy. I _do_ , its only…

_Do you love him?_

‘What?’

_For pity’s sake, it’s not a complicated question. Do. You. Love. Your. Son?_

Haytham stared off into the distance, eyes unfocused and mind racing. Yes, yes it was such a simple question, and yet… and yet it was such a very _dangerous_ one all the same. Far too dangerous for the Grand Master of the Templars to risk thinking about, especially given the very real probability that he and Connor would one day find themselves at a lethal impasse. It was hard enough to look at the boy and accept that the current leader of the enemy order was his own son. But this? No. No, he didn’t _dare_ think about such things. Because if he did…

Because if he did, Haytham honestly wasn’t sure he’d be able to do what was necessary, should the time come.

So no. No, it was better not to think of it at all. It was _safer_. Just go through the motions, and if circumstances allowed them to be allies for just a bit longer then he would damn well do everything in his power to sway the boy to his side, but never _ever_ think about it longer or deeper than necessary. He just _couldn’t_ risk it. It had been hard enough accepting his love for Ziio and then losing her, and he hadn’t even had a hand in that particular heartbreak, not really, not like he _dreaded_ would be the case with their son. And really, it was that dread that kept the thought from his mind, that strangled the treacherous voice in his mind whenever it tried to raise the issue, that forced his thoughts to other concerns.

And yet…

It was this thrice-damned, forever accursed, utterly impossible transformation. It was so easy to silence that treacherous voice when Connor was an adult, when he loomed and glared and threatened at every turn, when the possibility of lethal conflict was constantly real and imminent. So much easier to be the Templar he had to be when faced with an Assassin. Not so now. Not when his boy was just that – a boy. A tiny, helpless, precious child, who looked so much like the beloved son he had always dreamed of having that it _hurt_ Haytham to be near Connor knowing that – in every way that truly mattered – the boy simply wasn’t _his_. He was steadily losing any control he once had over himself, losing the ability to distance himself from the boy who so clearly _needed_ him, and every damned time the boy drifted further away he just wanted to scream to the heavens his rage at the unfairness of it all. Because Connor – infuriating, heroic, brilliant, wonderful little Connor – should have been _his_ from the start. It shouldn’t have taken nearly two decades for Haytham to learn he was a father, it shouldn’t have been another man who shepherded Connor towards adulthood, and he shouldn’t have to spend every _damned_ day fighting with himself because he ‘couldn’t afford’ to love his own son!

It was driving him mad. Completely, utterly, uncontrollably mad, and the longer the transformation lasted the worse it became. His self-control and priorities alike were slipping from his grasp and now, when faced with that dreaded question from which he should turn away, all he wanted to say was…

‘Yes.’ Haytham sat a moment in perfect silence, barely breathing, before choking out a shaky laugh, ‘Yes, I do. God forgive me, for it’s the last thing on this Earth I can afford, but I do.’ Shaking his head wryly, he leaned against the tree again, ‘He’s naïve, idealistic, too damn heroic for his own good, and worst of all an Assassin… but yes, I love him.’ He smiled helplessly, ignoring the threat of tears in his eyes, ‘How could I not?’

 _Then tell him,_ fix _things_

‘It’s not that simple.’

 _Oh, of_ course _it isn’t_

‘Its _not_. I can’t just…’ He growled, the sound almost feral, ‘I am a Grand Master of the Templar Order and, my son or no, Connor is an Assassin. He is the _enemy_. I cannot simply betray everything my order stands for, everything _I_ stand for, just because of blood ties. No matter how much I love him, unless Connor can be brought to see the Truth of things…’ he trailed off, the line of thought suddenly unbearable.

 _So that’s it? It’s_ too hard _to even look for another solution, so you’re just going to spare_ yourself _a bit of pain and let Connor continue thinking you hate him. You’re_ pathetic

Snarling, Haytham slammed his fist down against the rock beneath him, ‘And just what would you have me do? I _cannot_ simply pretend that the ideals of my order are meaningless, and Connor has proven time and again that he would never compromise with me, so what does that leave?!’ He scoffed sharply, ‘I suppose I could try to force the issue, try to _make_ him see reason, but I somehow doubt that Connor would respond well to be held hostage in one of my residences while I forcibly conscript him into my order.’ The sudden rush of passion died down again, leaving dull cold in its wake, ‘No. It’s… it’s better this way. If Connor thinks that I ha-” the word wouldn’t come out, ‘if he doesn’t know I love him… it won’t… hurt as much, when the time comes that we find ourselves…’ he gave another tired laugh, ‘at an impasse.’

_…_

He bit back a growl at the sudden silence, ‘What? Nothing clever to say? No brilliant arguments, no cutting rebukes? You’ve been so quick to attack me at every turn, don’t tell me you’re giving up the assault now.’ More silence followed, and he scoffed in disgust, ‘Come now, surely you’re not beaten so easily. I know you must have some other sanctimonious line of reasoning, so let’s have it!’

_…_

‘That’s what I thoug-’

Father _would have_ never _given you any reason to doubt his love_

Haytham’s eyes flew open in pained shock, breath catching in his throat.

 _Even had he lived long enough to see you turn your back on everything_ he _believed, even if he found himself facing you across the line of battle, he would have_ never _put this_ stupid _war between Templars and Assassins above his love for you, he would have_ never _stopped looking for another way. And you damn well_ know it

…

 _What? Nothing clever to say? No_ brilliant _denials, no defensive excuses? Why, you’ve always been so quick to justify yourself, don’t tell me you’re stopping now_

‘Sh-shut up.’

 _Maybe it’s that you’ve finally realized the truth: you’re not just pathetic, you’re_ disgusting

‘Shut up.’

 _It’s not enough that you’re too much of a coward to tell your own son the truth, you’re_ cruel _enough to intentionally_ hurt him

‘Shut up!’

 _Father would be_ ashamed _of you_

_**“Shut up!”** _

There was an explosion of movement at his outburst, birds erupting from trees and bushes and small creatures dashing away through the undergrowth, followed by a moment of pure silence. Distantly, Haytham realized he was on his feet, panting. Moments later a dull pain registered, slowly shifting into a sharp burn. Finally, the haze of rage cleared enough for Haytham to pull his hand away from the tree’s trunk, and then pull out a handkerchief to wrap his now bleeding knuckles.

_Well, I suppose the truth can’t always be nice to hear_

Haytham found himself fighting the urge to pound his other hand – or, better yet, his head – against the tree. ‘Do you _ever_ shut up?’

 _Oh yes. Of course, it’s about as often as_ you _do, so…_

He tightened his makeshift bandage more sharply than intended, wincing as he did so, ‘You wish for me to tell the truth, yes? Very well then, here it is: I _truly_ do not like you.’

_…_

‘What, was that “not nice to hear?”’

_…Oh no, not particularly hurtful. I’m just wondering how long it will take for you to fully realize what you just said. But while we wait, back to the matter at hand. You need to grow up and fix things with Connor_

Haytham tried to remember the last time he felt so much like simultaneously crying and screaming in helpless frustration. Then he remembered it was this morning, during the Second Battle of the Wardrobe – and _damn_ all stockings to the fires of eternal torment for the suffering they caused – and promptly lost his excuse to not respond. ‘We have been over this already. I _told_ you-’

 _A remarkable number of lies and excuses that were, in the end, either unimportant or just plain_ stupid. _Not that it’s particularly surprising of course, after all, the truth has never come easily to you. Even when it comes to your own wants and needs, you’re so quick to spin and believe your own lies_

He could nearly hear his teeth grinding together at that last bit, the subtle hint of something –sorrow, pity, or possibly both – that made him want to punch something again, ‘I do _not_ lie to myself.’  
 _Alright then. If that’s the case, admit it. Admit that you want to try and fix things with Connor, that you_ know _its right to tell him the truth_

He grasped at the sudden surge of warm lightness that sprung in his chest at that thought, trying to force it back down, ‘No, I can’t…’

_Haytham. Haytham, for once in your life, please. Stop. Lying_

The warm light surged again, fighting back. He could feel his control over himself slipping, and it _terrified_ him. ‘I _can’t_.’

 _Yes, you_ can. _Admittedly, it will be rather difficult, as you’re rather out of practice, but you can do it if you just_ try

‘I…’ He gasped, shuddered, and came to the horrifying realization that he was crying. ‘I want to.’ He was shuddering harder now, almost violently, ‘I _want_ to, so much, but… but I don’t know if I 

_can_.’

 _Haytham… you can at least_ try

The sudden gentleness, the sense of faith and support, nearly sent him over the edge. ‘I… I’m scared.’

 _Hiding out here won’t change that. Go back to the cabin, tell Connor the truth. You always tell him that you’re older, more experienced, and that you know better? Time to_ show it

For some minutes Haytham stood there, leaning against the tree, bandaged hand pressing into his side while the other cradled his head, mind racing. Then, finally, he slowly pushed himself off the tree, shaking his head. ‘Alright, alright. I’m going. And if all it earns me is a moments peace from you then…’ he froze after several steps, eyes wide in sudden shocked realization, ‘Wait. Am… did…’ He ran through the previous events in his mind, disbelief and horror growing, ‘Have I… actually been having an argument… _with myself?’_

 _At this point, it would be more accurate to say that you have just_ lost _an argument with yourself – but yes_

…

 _What? I said that sleep-deprivation wasn’t the reason you were doubting yourself, I never suggested that you_ weren’t _horribly sleep-deprived. In fact, you probably should try and get a good rest tonight; this cannot be particularly healthy_

…

 _And since that rest requires the cabin, it would be a good idea to_ get back there _so you can make amends for your cruel idiocy towards your son and then rest. Go to, man_

Stumbling the next few steps, Haytham fought against the all too familiar urge to simultaneously laugh and weep in hysterics. ‘I am going insane.’

_Personally, I’d be less worried about the fact that you’ve been arguing with yourself, and more worried about your deep rooted self-loathing_

‘I don’t-’

 _Because you ‘_ truly _do not like’ me, remember?_

He staggered heavily – remembering, wincing at, and mentally striking himself for that particular moment of pure madness – before regaining his footing and forging ahead. ‘Oh shut up.’

################

By the time Haytham returned to the cabin it was nearly night, cold enough that he was beginning to shiver. And yet he found himself frozen at the door, griping the handle so firmly that his knuckles whitened. Then, after a truly embarrassing number of false starts, he took a deep breath and – mustering his courage as best he could – made his way inside.

Without any internal light source the cabin was a backdrop of grays, the last light of day barely filtering through the windows. It was only slightly warmer than the outdoors, and Haytham felt yet another pang of guilt as recollection of Connor’s poor resilience to the cold struck him. Adding _one more_ act of thoughtless cruelty to his list of crimes, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, nerves rising as his return failed to illicit any response from within the cabin. After a few moments his eyes focused sufficiently, and he made his way towards the cabin’s stove.

Even with the slight numbness from cold, Haytham made quick work of starting a fire, and soon the cabin was filled with growing light and warmth. Even so, he found himself fixated on the fire, prodding it, starting to close the door, opening it again, adding another block of wood, prodding that, starting to close the door...

He was _concerned_ about temperature of the cabin, that was all. There was no other reason for why he had yet to turn around. He was certainly not… stalling. Because, clearly, that would be ridiculous.

A low groan and rustle of fabric came from behind him and – holding his breath and steeling himself – Haytham turned for his riveting task of tending the stove.

Connor had barely moved since Haytham left the cabin, shifting only slightly to curl himself into a tiny ball at the chair’s foot. At some point sleep had apparently overcome him, no doubt caused by exhaustion and the earlier conflict, likely explaining the lack of reaction to Haytham’s return. The various effects of the newly made fire, however, had pierced the veil of slumber. Connor pushed himself into a half-sitting position, rubbing slowly at his eyes and whimpering softly; for a moment he looked confused, until – in a split second that made Haytham’s stomach twist – his eyes focused on the Templar.

Their eyes locked together, Connor’s expression strangely amazed. After a short, awkward silence, Haytham cleared his throat, “Connor, I-”

Whatever else he was going to say trailed off in a startled cry as – in one astoundingly fluid motion – Connor leapt to his feet and flung himself across the distance. In a second the boy hurtled into Haytham’s legs with such force that he staggered, stumbled over a leg of the stove, and – narrowly avoiding cracking his skull or burning himself on the stove – crashed to the ground, Connor still clinging furiously to him.

He winced slightly at the impact, joy that he had _not_ taken them into the stove and utter confusion at the situation overwhelming the outrage and annoyance he normally would have felt, and fixed his eyes back on the boy. “What…” He cut himself off immediately, fear replacing all other emotions as he realized how _violently_ his son was trembling. “Co… Connor?”

The boy was clinging to him, fingers digging through his trousers and into his leg, face now buried into Haytham’s side. When he finally spoke, it was in a whisper so small and muffled that Haytham nearly missed it. “You left.”

He barely suppressed a flinch. The lack of anger or reproach in those two words shocked him and, against all logic, made him feel even _worse_ than he had before. Because if there was one thing Haytham had – begrudgingly – grown used to from the boy, it was the vitriol. Connor had a gift for instantly shifting from any given state to one of righteous scorn, for imbuing a single glance with all the rage or disdain he possessed, and these gifts had only grown since his transformation. Scarcely an interaction over the past six days – and merciful _heavens_ had it only been six? – had been free of ire, and astonishingly Haytham found its sudden absence more upsetting than a firestorm of rage.

“I…” he swallowed hard against the knot that had risen in his throat, “I know. It’s just… Connor?”

When the boy first latched on to him, he had been unsettlingly still. Since then he had begun to tremble, a barely noticeable quiver becoming a powerful shudder. Haytham’s mind raced, panic growing even further; had the boy fallen ill, had the earlier fall caused some previously unseen injury, or had he somehow harmed himself during Haytham’s absence?

Now trembling himself, Haytham reached down, resting his hands on Connor’s shoulders and trying – gently – to pull the boy away and look him over. “Connor, what is it?” A note of muted panic slipped out with the words, and – despite himself – Haytham found he didn’t give a damn. “What’s wrong, are… are you-”

Connor pulled back suddenly, cutting Haytham off abruptly. The trembling boy stared up at him, tears overflowing his eyes. _”I thought you were not coming back!”_

A blade would not have cut so deeply. All at once Haytham felt as though he was plummeting into some abyss, stomach coiling sickly, heart twisting, disgust and shame overwhelming everything, and for a hysterical moment the Templar thought _he_ might burst into tears as well. No one had ever accused Haytham of being a fool or of being shortsighted, and yet…

Of course. Of course he had been so _damn_ focused on himself that he hadn’t even stopped to think about his boy, of how Connor would interpret his storming off like that. And why shouldn’t Connor think he was abandoned, when Haytham had actually done so in the past, when both were their proper ages and Connor’s Assassin doctrine grated on Haytham’s nerves just too long? And certainly it would be frustrating for the elder to simply depart, leaving Connor to handle any enemy or problem at hand on his own… but now? When Connor _could not_ care for himself? That would have unsettled… frightened anyone.

No wonder Connor thought he hated him.

He was distantly aware that his hands – still clasped on Connor’s shoulders – were trembling and – pride be damned – he found he wanted nothing more than to pull his son into his lap, to cradle the boy against his chest, to rock him and whisper every last assurance and comfort that came to mind until the tears stopped and everything was _fixed_.

“Connor… Connor, I…” He started to pull the boy closer, stopped, and then – damning himself as a coward – simply lifted his hands to the boy’s face. “I know. Connor, I know and I am so… _so_ sorry.” The bewildered shock in Connor’s eyes added another stab of guilt. Breathing deeply, Haytham forged ahead, “I shouldn’t have left you like that. I was just so… I needed to clear my head, and I didn’t even think of what…” he trailed off with a sigh and lifted one hand to brush tears from Connor’s face, a strange – increasingly familiar – warmth growing in his chest as the boy leaned into the touch. Then, finally giving into the impulse, pulled his son into his arms. “I’m sorry, Connor.”

The boy snuffled a bit, shifted and – after a strangely tense moment when it seemed he might pull away – settled himself against Haytham.

It was… awkward. Connor was curled up in Haytham’s lap, knees pulled to chest, head resting against Haytham’s collarbone, one hand pinned between knees and body while the other played with a button on Haytham’s coat. For his part, Haytham was precariously balanced between sitting and kneeling on the floor, arms holding the boy tightly enough that he wouldn’t fall but loosely enough that he could slip out in a moment. Both were tense, neither entirely certain that the embrace was a good idea but neither wanting to move.

Eventually, Haytham breathed a deep sigh, shifting to sit fully. “Connor? I think we should talk.”

Tiny fingers stilled, frozen around his button. When he responded, it was in a tiny whisper, “About what?”

“About… this.” He hesitantly rested a hand on Connor’s back. “And about us. I think it’s about time we called a truce,” shaking his head, he huffed a tired laugh, “if for no other reason than to keep us from each other’s throats.”

That won a tiny breath – that _might_ have been a laugh – and, after a faint nod against Haytham’s chest, Connor resumed toying with the button.

Screwing his courage to the proverbial sticking place, Haytham forged ahead before he could get in his own way. Again. “I know that rational discourse isn’t typically a mainstay of our interactions, but I’d at least like to imagine that we both can conduct ourselves like reasonable adults, regardless of situation or… difference of opinion, shall we say. And I’ll be the first to point out how the current situation goes beyond the unbelievable, and everything we’ve gone through before has hardly helped matters, but that’s no excuse for…” he inhaled sharply, then hissed the breath out, shaking his head in weary frustration. “What I’m _trying_ to say is… about… earlier… everything that was said-”

“Haytham, I-”

“You were right.”

He heard the boy’s shocked gasp and forced himself to look down, holding Connor’s gaze as he continued. “You were right, Connor, about everything. I _haven’t_ been fair to you, not in the past and certainly not now. I’ve had no right to treat you as I have, and less right to expect anything but scorn and distrust. I…” he allowed himself the luxury of looking away, breathing deeply, “I can’t imagine how difficult, how frustrating this must be for you, and I shouldn’t be making things worse by teasing… by _mocking_ you,” he amended as the boy sniffed, “for things that are out of your control. I know this isn’t your fault, I know you’re not really a child, and I _know_ you’re not stupid.” Here he shrugged, “Idealistic, overly trusting, and _infuriatingly_ naïve most days-”

This last was met with a palm to the chest, exasperated growl, and attempt to pull free.

Mentally kicking himself, Haytham shifted abruptly – nearly losing his balance and narrowly avoiding an embarrassing encounter with the floor – doing his best to keep hold of the boy. “What I’m trying to say, poorly, is that…” he sighed once again, “I’m sorry Connor. Truly.” He fought back a wince at the note of suspicion in the boy’s face and, bidding farewell to _another_ mote of his self-respect, continued, “Yes, as apologies go that _was_ rather pitiful; you may or may not have noticed in the past, but… but my social skills are somewhat limited to giving orders and insults, or simply lying through my teeth. Or, well,” he gave a slight shrug of admission, “killing people.”

Connor stared at him for a moment longer. Then, just slowly enough for Haytham to catch the flash of a smile, he ducked his head. “I _have_ noticed that, on occasion.” The boy’s hands twisted for a bit in his lap as he added, “I suppose it is not usually a problem; after all, you _are_ skilled in those areas.”

For a very strange moment, Haytham wondered whether the boy was still teasing him with that last bit. Then, realizing the tone was _just_ awkward enough to be entirely sincere, spent an even stranger moment torn between the urge to burst out laughing at the absurdity of the compliment and the nearly overwhelming desire to cuddle the boy in genuine pleasure at the – still utterly absurd – compliment. In the end he decided that, however much ground he had just gained, either option would increase his chances of being stabbed. And – as he didn’t particularly feel like losing ground _or_ being stabbed – he settled on chuckling softly and running his hand over his child’s back. “I’m flattered that you’ve noticed.” He felt a slight tremor of silent laughter vibrate through the boy, and smiled. “I suppose, what I mean by all this – aside from ‘I’m sorry,’ of course – is…” he swallowed against his pride, “be patient with me? I’m going to try to be less… well, less of a cruel, unthinking brute, I suppose; but,” he paused emphatically here, “I can tell you now that I will make mistakes. I will slip up and say things without thinking, and likely they won’t be kind things because, as we’ve determined, I am not the nicest of men.” At this the boy mumbled something that sounded vaguely like ‘understatement,’ prompting a raised eyebrow before Haytham continued, “I will readily acknowledge that I am very direct – one might say blunt – and fairly abrasive. I am used to pointing out failings in others and I don’t tolerate disrespect. I…” he took a deep breath and forced himself to continue, “I know you aren’t one of my subordinates, that you aren’t... mine. To command,” he amended quickly, shaking his head, “You are not mine to command, and you’ve proven yourself more than capable on numerous occasions. I know I’ve no right to point out faults I perceive, regardless of whether or not they’re even there. It’s just that I…”

 _It’s just that I want you to be_ safe. _It’s just that I’m_ terrified _you’ll be hurt or captured or worse, and I won’t be able to do a damned thing to help. If I had my way you’d go your entire life without having a blade in your hand or turned against you; but that’s not possible, so at least I can try to help, try to teach you and guide you so you won’t be in as much danger. I just want…_

Haytham shook his head, “I _can’t_ promise that I won’t point things out or make suggestions or critiques because, like it or not, I have the experience to see and know more than you might, and because I doubt I will be able to resist the urge to speak. But, I will try… _try_ , you understand, to be… less of an ass about it.” He brushed a lock of hair from Connor’s face, “Now, and when things return to normal; if you’ll allow it.” He let that sink in for a moment, watching a fascinating range of emotions play over the boy’s face.

That covered the easy part of their prospective truce. Time for the hard part.

“But…” he held up a hand, cutting Connor off, and tried not to wince at the sudden resurgence of suspicion. “But if we’re going to have _any_ peace, then we _both_ need to make some concessions an— now hear me out!” And if looks could burn than Haytham’s face would be properly charred from the expression of betrayed indignation on the boy’s face. Haytham held eye contact for a few moments, waiting for the intensity of the glare to defuse slightly, before continuing. “I am being entirely sincere, Connor. I will do my damnedest to be less of a bastard, but there are a few things you _have_ to accept and cope with, or nothing I do will matter and we’ll have nothing to look forward to but mutual homicide.”

For a moment, Connor’s glare flared up again, mistrust warring with indignation. Haytham simply continued to hold the gaze, keeping his eyes as soft as he could. At last, bit by painstaking bit, his strategy seemed to pay off, and the boy’s glare slowly lessened to a vaguely trembling pout that – in all likelihood – thought itself a stoic glower.

Taking the change as permission to continue, Haytham did so. “As I’ve said, I know you’re not a child… at least, not mentally. But, like it or not, you _are_ a child _physically._ Through no fault of your own you won’t be able to carry about as you are used; you are going to need to make changes and allowance for this body’s needs, and in many things you _are_ going to need help. Help that I can give… if you will let me.” Again he paused, letting Connor process his words before continuing, “I know this will be difficult, that you are used to doing things on your own, but… well, think of it like this: if you were injured, a broken limb or some such, you would see no issue with accepting help from someone else, yes? There’s nothing wrong with it, nothing shameful; it’s just a temporary necessity until you regain your full wellness and capability.”  
Connor held still for a moment, fidgeted for a few more, then fell still again. Then, at long last, he peered up at Haytham, “It is like… like fighting a common enemy. We work together, supporting each other’s weaknesses, and things will be easier. Only now…” he trailed off awkwardly, and Haytham felt his lips twitch in amusement.

“Only now, I’ll actually try not to be a condescending ass, yes.” Slowly, he lifted his hand, “Truce?”

The boy’s eyes shifted from his own, down to the hand, then back up to hold his gaze. “I…” he breathed a tiny sigh, nodding in determination, “I will try, if you will.” He fidgeted again, a slight red flush coloring his face, “I am sorry as well, for my part in… in all this. You have been trying to help me – poorly, for the most part – but,” he added quickly, flushing brighter at Haytham’s raised brow, “but you have been trying and…” his expression flickered briefly between mild wonder and genuine pleasure, “you did not need to do anything. You could have simply left me where you found me, or left me in the care of the first person you encountered, or done _anything_ you wished with me and… and I would not have been able to do anything about it. But, instead, you chose to put everything on hold and look after me, to take care of me.” His eyes fell briefly away from Haytham’s before being forced back, shame and embarrassment alike evident on his face, “I _have_ been behaving childishly, I have been ungrateful, and I have contributed to making things more difficult than necessary. I am sorry for that and… and thank you… Haytham.” Connor placed his hand in Haytham’s, the size difference meaning it disappeared entirely when the elder clasped it fully, and nodded, “Truce.”

They stayed like that for a moment, hands clasped and sitting in a blessedly peaceful silence. Then, like a strike of thunder, Connor let out a _titanic_ yawn.

Both went perfectly still. Haytham’s eyes were wide and mouth pencil thin, first in surprise and second as he desperately tried to keep from either laughing or saying something stupid and undoing everything they had just accomplished.

Connor was wide eyed himself, embarrassed flush returning with a fury. Then, after what seemed an eternity, he cleared his throat, “Perhaps I should… retire for the night? I… that is… it is no different from if I were ill?” He looked up tentatively, “I require more sleep like this and… and there is nothing wrong with that… yes?”

Sighing in relief, Haytham gave a smile and agreeable nod, “Nothing wrong with that in the slightest.” A thought struck him and, feeling awkward and strangely tentative, he added, “Though… considering how this day has played out, perhaps you should eat something first?”

The boy’s brow furrowed in thought for a moment. “I… am not hungry.”

Half a dozen thought raced through Haytham’s mind at once. It had been hours since Connor had last eaten, he had barely picked over that last meal, he had barely picked over the last _several_ meals, it wasn’t healthy, he needed to eat more, Haytham should _make_ him eat more, he was likely just being pointlessly stubborn and testing the waters and…

Breathing deeply, Haytham made himself nod. “Alright. Alright, if you’re sure. Though, if you change your mind at any point…”

Connor sighed, tension melting away from his entire body all at once, and looked up at Haytham with a genuine smile. “I shall let you know.” He ducked his head, a motion that – on anyone else – Haytham would have considered shy, “Thank you.”

For no reason he could truly fathom Haytham found himself smiling in turn, the strange thought that Connor’s gift for imbuing simple words and gestures with passion included positive emotions, as well as negative ones, flittering through his mind.

Debating his next move briefly, he slowly made to stand without putting Connor down, another irrational surge of happiness running through him when the boy curled into him instead of trying to pull free, and slowly made his way to the sleeping area upstairs. Setting the boy on one of the beds, Haytham _assisted_ Connor in changing from his day clothes to his night shirt, rather than simply attempting to perform the transition alone and – though it took the two of them longer than it would have taken Haytham alone – completed the task without a single attempted blow or muttered insult. That completed, Haytham guided the yawning Connor into bed, slowly tucking the covers up and around his boy.

He sat motionlessly on the bed, looking down at Connor as the boy shifted and settled down. Once again he found himself nearly overwhelmed with the desire to lean close, to press a kiss against his son’s head and watch him drift off into slumber. Holding his breath he started to do just that, then stopped abruptly, and instead reached out to brush the boy’s hair back from his face before rising. “Goodnight Connor.”

“Haytham?”

He paused at the stairs, turning to look back at the boy, “Yes?”

Connor squirmed a little, looking exhausted, awkward, and more than a little ashamed. “I… I did not mean what I…” he trailed off into an abrupt yawn, eyes fighting to stay open. He squirmed a little more, and for a moment Haytham thought he saw a red flush sweep over the boys face, before he retreated almost entirely under the covers. Then, so quietly Haytham almost didn’t catch it, he whispered. “I did not mean what I said about you and mother. And… I do not hate you.”

For one overwhelming, hysterical moment Haytham actually thought he might burst into tears, and it took several deep breaths before he could trust himself to speak. “I… don’t hate you either, Connor.”

The boy looked up at him, blinked, then smiled and nodded sleepily before curling himself up and closing his eyes.

Haytham remained at the top of the stairs for longer than he would ever admit, simply watching as Connor’s breaths slowly deepened, nose wrinkling and fingers curling around the blankets as sleep carried him off. Even then he didn’t move, standing still for minute upon minute, watching the boy sleep.

Finally, with an absurd amount of difficulty, he forced his gaze away from the sleeping child and made his way downstairs. There was still work to do, he reminded himself, no matter his isolation or the strangeness that had overtaken his life. He was still a grandmaster of the Templar order and that meant there was work to do.

Several hours later Haytham found himself climbing the stairs again, this time to settle himself down for the night. Hours of sitting with his work before him, no distractions of any sort, and he hadn’t gotten a damn thing done. And yet for some incomprehensible reason, he thought with a bewildered smile as he gazed at the child in the other bed, he could remember the last time he felt so utterly at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _So, the running themes of this story are becoming: "This chapter ended up being A LOT longer than I expected," and "Wow, there are entire PASSAGES of this I did not even conceive of when I plotted this chapter out." IE: That entire section where Haytham turmoils out in the woods and fights with inner!Haytham (who I am now calling "Papa Kenway" in my head). Initially, this chapter was basically: build to fight, fight, Haytham broods in the woods off screen for a bit, comes back, truce. Then I actually started writing the chapter, and suddenly Haytham started angsting onscreen and Papa Kenway started a fight with him and things would not stop! Next thing I knew I was spending what felt like an eternity writing and rewriting a section I never planned because I suddenly felt it _had_ to be there but couldn't craft to my satisfaction. Seriously people, I could probably get an entire other story out of all the rewrites this chapter went through. :P_
> 
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> 
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> 
> _(Another - stranger - running theme of this story is: "Wow... Connor spends a lot of this asleep.")_

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Wish](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5418431) by [BigJellyMonster (orphan_account)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/BigJellyMonster)




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